A feral wind fetters through the valley
this early morn.
What does this portend?
Now that The Guns of August
has new meaning,
will the results predilect
a fierce or a tepid Autumn?
Will these renewed winds whirl against Washington?
Or will they die down,
as a gathering multitude have lain before the world's
astonishment, time and time and time again?
Once we proved safe passage to the North.
To the verdant acres of freedom.
Yet now all the grasses are parsed.
The trenches dug.
The factions settled.
Where will our true flowers grow now?
Now that the faithful ground is befouled
once again?
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