I talk to myself. Mumble silently is more like it. Watch where you put your feet, look for movement, for a wire, a vine, stick and stone signs, a slight depression, for geometry- a straight line, a circle, a triangle, for what doesn't belong. Don't stare, you'll get hypnotized, scan. Doing it without thinking, repeating the movements like an endless rosary, my Marine squad stretches a hundred meters single file along the floor of Happy Valley.
I'm driving home
The car in front with the ribbons turns off. I go straight. Rolling down the windows, I crank up Rod Stewart on the radio and scratch Jack between his soft and beautiful ears. He likes his window all the way open. He moves there to put his face in the breeze. You want to do something for our troops, bring them home.
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