Feet soaked

In 20 degree weather,

Sleep deprived,

Listening for a sound,

Any sound.

The crackling of twigs

Beneath boots or

The whispers

Of breathing, people living

Several odd yards away

In a hole in the ground,

Just like mine.

Rifles, life the extension

Of our arms,

Pointed into darkness,

Waiting for the sound

Or for a quick glance

Of bodies moving,

Adjusting their position

In sleep.

The sporadic sound of gunfire,

On another plain of existence,

As the staccato gains tempo

And the field becomes space,

Twinkling with stars as

Comets and meteors

Fly through the air

And strike moons,

And the ground,

And as agony creeps in,

We listen for a sound,

Any sound.