The High Water Mark 6:45 AM

September 23rd,

Dawn has arrived

No one has told the crickets,

Their cadence echoes through the fog like distant cannons.

Soft mist brushes

My cheeks and covers

My hands.



Autumns colors hiding
Fog rolls like soft silk
Across the weed covered

Ground, around the boulders,

And through the spokes
Of cannon wheels.



I feel the hills
I cannot see.

Their arms surround the space

That saved our country.

Those hills hold

The souls of brothers

Fathers, and sons

Sacrificing themselves in early July

So long ago,

That today I may stand

Free, thankful,

American.