He leaned quietly into his roan horse's worn saddle,
arched his back with that slow stiffness morning frost brings,
and closed his eyes briefly.
Thoughts rattled around his head like gravel being shoveled,
and assembled themselves one by one,
as his troops gleamed in the dawn,
bayonets glinting off and on like golden chattering teeth.
Never a stiller calm, he thought,
absently finding his fingers entwined in the mare's rough mane,
and raising his hand to his mouth,
tasted days old musket powder,
stained with tobacco, pride and rich trampled dirt.
Never a stiller calm, he thought again,
raising this same scarred saber hand,
sending a tiny ocean forward to death or glory.
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