Gently grayed fields of grass stand stiff 

As if, in defiance of the cold, 

Holding to a remnant of spring in their roots. 

Men come to work this land day in and day out 

The labor of their hands embodied in soil 

And perseverance against a hand given wrongly. 

They continue their labor into the day 

And at noontime 

The bellows blow 

Bringing to life the blacksmith’s shop. 

And suddenly, without warning– 

The cavalry arrives, armed with lead 

Met by pleas for mercy 

But none given 

The first crack 

Ignition of powder 

Expelling the shot 

The men retreat to a pillar of smoke 

And hide themselves in the shop 

While light streams in through the boards 

A panic 

A fervor 

A desperation– 

Silence 

And as if grasped by some spirit 

The rows of light 

Become rows of barrels 

And smoke is all that is left 

Smoke, and an ember. 

Haun’s Mill by C. C. A. Christensen, 1850 AD