A park setting of rolling manicured lawns,
and a thousand acres of lakes, swans, ducks, and hallowed grounds of
countless veterans at rest. A peaceful place for the spirit to linger,
or spend an eternity. The veterans memorial dedication ceremony will
begin soon, and yet my eyes are drawn to the alter, upon which rests
a 12 foot pillar of black stone, and its burden. Dusk is upon us and
the California skies are amber and a radiant pink that chases the fair
blue from heaven, hills and valleys.
The
Warrior . . .
He
is a young man, this fallen warrior, newly slain. I chanced upon him as if pursuing
echoes of wavering sounds of distant battle -- terrible Armageddon of thundering
hooves, soughing to and fro in gentle winds.
He
is not posed in death to glorify the battle. How still, he lays. Quiet. Unmoving
ï¿?though not abandoned nor discarded in fields of tall grass. More likely gently
carried by comrades from the raging meandering battlefield, and placed thus upon
this flat stone pedestal -- protected from beasts -- hidden from searching, killing,
human eyes ï¿?yet vulnerable to flying creatures of metal or flesh, and elements
of nature that would reduce him to dust.
It
is easy to visualize early American ancestors who also buried their veteran warriors
in the sky. It is easy to remember James Bruce Jones, mortally wounded and carried
prostrate upon the hood of a jeep racing futilely to Danang, Vietnam, Air Base's
dispensary.
Hours have passed since
comrades laid down the Warrior, and rushed back into the fractious ... no doubt
planning a return 
to
bind and care for his wounds, not yet mortal. Shimmering heat waves waffle sight
and gleeful sounds of anguished cries for vengeance and mercy. Men had carried
him, with care, to this his granite bed ï¿?granite alter ï¿?granite final resting
place. Arms placed across his chest ï¿?not composed in death, but in comfort. His
left arm sags to his side ï¿?his right arm now dangles toward earth, with open
hand as if beckoning the human touch of love past, and undiscovered. Streaks of
blood have dried away what stream of life once pulsed and flowed, and now, slowed
to nothing.
A poncho liner is draped
over his form and face -- shade from harsh light -- warmth from night's chill,
should friends tarry -- and to their fates they tarry still. A tuff of hair catches
a whisper-breeze, and flutters like the dandelion before flight. His head turned
slightly, ear once cocked to sounds of muffled battle. Can he yet hear the growing
silence? Hours since voices of victory or defeat last cried out in murmurs of
wavering discourse.
Mares-tail clouds
wisp released souls from battlefields of dark stained earth, newly moisten red,
plowed and torn asunder. Wispy friends of hours past, ride point toward the other
side ï¿?and now await, having cleared the way for comrades of battle ... and those
who will later follow. They even beckon an all-clear to him ï¿?when he
is ready ï¿?and wait, still and quiet in this peaceful place ... patient, with
time's certainty.
The first night of
eons draws nigh.
No weapon laid nearby
for self, last, defense. They knew.
No
surgeon, nurse, friend, nor even guard of honor or enemy.
No
tribute.
No flag.
Timeless
veteran casualty . . . this fallen American Warrior ï¿?patriot of homeland . .
. victor and vanquished.
Alone.
Loved ones still unknowing.
Candles
are lit and light others, as cupped glows are passed amongst those who would remember
lost friends and loved ones. Starlight descended to earth . . . twinkling to those
souls who wait across the lake.
Bagpipes
weep . . . Amazing Grace . . . " how sweet the sound ...."
Bugles mourn Taps . . .
