like soldiers, they are standing tall, strong - surrounded by the chaotic mass of half dried reeds, swamp grasses and those who did not make it, the fallen. they are still across the surface now, water-soaked and so, much darker, this is a battlefield. scarred and ravaged by cold they have given in (and so, have i?). bent slightly in the mid-section first, i can see they fell slowly, defiantly (and so, i think, did i). the others tower behind them, a broken wall swaying at the slightest hint of a breeze. (things rarely fall to pieces all at once, it is a progression, slow and steady.)

standing along the fence you will see them cast against the calendar skies, wonder how they might have managed to stand through all that snow. the penetrating cold this place will force upon you. (and i will wonder at my own strength, as i always do.) how they seem to be spilling seeds from their fuzzy brown heads, despite the unforgiving season. seething in new life.

few things are able to hold on for so long, around here. resiliant, as far as soldiers might go, they are of the strangest sort. (most things around here learn it is better to let go.)