Bow River Crossing

First snow.
I looked out the window
and shrugged,
pulling my sweater closer.
And then,
pausing for a moment,
I wrote about you
and November.
Remember?

Cloaked in
white?
Remember,
night had creeped in,
leaving you resting,
shifting in the dark.
Rhythmic sound?
Your fellows breathing.
Once, a hand resting on
your arm… ‘just checking’.

Distant drone?
Aircraft
pulling you out of sleep.
Questions grumbling in the
black air.  Louder
and again louder.
A sister calling, ‘calm down,
all is well’.

Explosion of light,
sound and smell?
Burning flesh.
May 19, 1918
White flash of
First November
Snow.

And I closed my eyes
at the window.
Remember.