A gentle breeze chatters the leaves
as birds sing their greetings.
The sun shines, a day like any other,
and yet like none before.
Two mirrored rows of uniforms
lined up like blue dominoes,
white gloves holding rifles at the ready.
One lone bugle cries.
Twenty-four notes,
each note slow as a tear,
blankets ears and heavy hearts.
In the silence between,
nature holds its breath.
Gone is the wind.
Gone are the bird songs.
Gone is her hold on composure,
all lost in the bugle's lament.
Solemnly a soldier approaches,
white gloves present a tri-fold flag,
and in one final mournful note,
legions of silent voices unite
to call a comrade home
and a young wife weeps.