Ceasefire

That fall, the Generals made a truce
And started shaping words.
The trenches stilled. Still, blood flowed red.
The troops sat, stupid. Overhead
They heard the flight of birds.

A boy crept out into the sluice
Of sleet, and scanned for drones.
Midfield, a rush of storks traversed
The front, with patterns long rehearsed:
In flight to winter zones.

The other side, in order loose,
Watched, joyous, from the mire.
In tears the armies came together
Snatching stick and blessing feather,
Fierce to make a fire.