In May, the Generals  made a truce
And started  shaping words.
The trenches stilled. Still, blood flowed red
As 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 summer zones.

The other side, in order loose,
Watched, joyous, from the mire.
In  tears the armies  came together
Grabbing  sticks, while chasing  feather,
Fierce  to make a fire.

Ellen Taylor can be reached at ellenetaylor@yahoo.com.