Surrounded by a bright spectrum of color;
brown-black mud that we’d carry home
caked in the treads of our boots;
red and yellow flowers remaining
to rise sun-ward after our trampling;
lush, broad, green leaves hanging
from dark trees, old as Moses.

We were just boys really,
trudging amongst the triple canopy,
prentending…to be men…to be ready…
to not be scared to death…or of death;
choking now on the false bravado
so easily displayed in the relative safety
of the semi-air-conditioned barracks.

We’d been raised on John Wayne heroics;
only recently graduating from long sticks
and silver plated “Lone Ranger” cap pistols
- the harmless props of our youthful indestructibility -
in a time when getting hit was cured by a ten count.
Now each had become walking death
wielding a plastic and gun-metal scythe.

We pushed on through the fog of our fear,
carefully, listening for a snap, crackle, or pop!
Each quietly praying that when it comes…
if it comes…
the noise will awaken us from a dream
to find ourselves at the breakfast table,
in front of a bowl of talking cereal.