"You dozed, and watched the night revealing The thousand sordid images of which your soul was constituted; They flickered against the ceiling." ~T.S. Eliot, "Preludes"
War Eagle Mill
The road rises against Ozark hills, past the War Eagle mill to the caverns. Farm houses rise over creek beds littered with cold cellars, they which stand waist high, sandstone reaching from the dugout earth. Cedar shakes cover, maybe, mason jars of canned jellies, jams, potted meats. Maybe, though, they are empty, relics of other days.
"Forces use chemical weapons against opposition forces," the radio breaks. It is an omen of changing winds, the rising tides that lift all ships, push toward the jutting hawksbill crag. Amber says, "I don't want my boys warring," as if conversing with the fates, or God. The fates are silent, empty too. The valley, it is late coming green.
Where once there was fellowship, now there are the trembling portents. Where once there was morning beauty, new, now there are sordid images, flickering by candle. Where once there were child's games, cowboys versus Nazis, now there are only captors. The waterwheel turns still, water pushing, pushing, always pushing. To everything there is a season; to everything a turn.
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Cover photo by Muffet via Creative Commons.