Cows lowed in mossy leas,
barns bright with fresh paint
where blood would soon
festoon each weathered board.
Quaint town of immigrant,
rural heart and hard plow
asking that the Lord allow
His blind grace.
Town of farms
by Lord embraced
till now.
Germans turned the sod to wheat,
built the miles of jagged fence
through the jewel of Adams County
soon to scatter on the ground.
June's last day of Sixty-three
morning mist soon vapored up,
giving way to haze.
Hot and haggered,
rebels staggered
up the streets and into fate.
Wanted things they'd fought without:
food and shoes and coffee.
Voiced their plaint with naught a threat,
sweaty boys in ragged clothes.
Each a soul with flesh worn thin,
ill-used and far from home.
Gettysburg had given sons,
war ate primogeniture-
left with land, they cradled corn
and commerce took the place of love.
'Locust God' was sleeping sound
till thirty June of Sixty-three.
Cosmic shifting shook him, whispered
"Time is nigh for Hell to come."
He raised one scaly, lidded eye
to look, and necromanced the Hun.
Every lowing meadow
felt a shadow pass
but couldn't run.
Next: 'John Burns'
