Bastogne

Like minuscule flower petals, many snowflakes glimmered down.

The world appeared still and motionless, untouched, and alone,

belying the hard tension that still lay thick around the town.

Like the object of some twisted game, the lonely Bastogne

stood like a shrouded apparition, an imposing menace, or threat

Men lay about grasping rifles, some coldly and tightly,

some with still resolute purpose. Even so, the dim silhouette,

of a broken building or its charred corpse interjected contritely.

Men take cover as a leaping flare casts long stripes of threat.

The guns of the village then echoed and boomed recklessly

Flailing the hills opposite them with unadulterated rage.

The forest and hill stood stoically alone, almost helplessly.

No reporting guns answered or rose to engage.

The night again lapsed into silence and again the hills lay still.

Old trees lay splintered, the snow was dark with ashy dread.

Tomorrow men would venture out to the town from the hill.

Past the desolate farmland and crippled fences to tread,

doggedly forwards to seek a victory of valor and skill.