Night Maneuvers

I share a poem today

Night Maneuvers

As I lay in the guest bed of my grown child,

I heard sounds, the maneuvers of the Army.

First, the patterned thrumming of helicopters,

choppa-choppa-chop

becoming quieter as they distanced from

the house, from my hearing, from my consciousness.

I welcome the silence in which sleep follows.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe.

Before sleep arrived, I heard a new rhythm.

The Duhda-duhda-duh of artillery.

Practicing the killing of the enemy.

Duhda-duhda-duh

The enemy is people. Human beings.

Just like me. Just like everyone I know.

Just like my grandbaby in the nursery.

Duhda-duhda-duh

Machines play a steady articulation.

Programmed? Or chosen by that human being

squeezing the trigger, or toggling the stick?

Duhda-duhda-duh

The silent rests between seems to be the same.

Can the people take cover in those pauses?

That is, if they weren’t annihilated first?

Duhda-duhda-duh

I feel the power of the rhythm of both

the Duhda-duhda-duh and the pause.

Does killing have its own cadence?

Duhda-duhda-duh

Just hours before, in the sweet winter sunlight,

I had walked the grandbaby-filled stroller

In their peaceful village, to the dead-end street.

Bumpity, bump, bump

Beyond the barriers with the Keep Out sign

was the practice grounds for our military.

Just another stretch of a tree-lined creek bed.

Sun-sparkly water

But, at night, it is an exercise in war.

I wondered if the critters stayed there safely.

Did they fly or flee from that place under siege?

Duhda-duhda-duh

I wished for the tinny “Twinkle, Twinkle” song

on loop, playing for the naps of my grandchild

that day to drown out the artillery sounds.

Duhda-duhda-duh

I try to make sense of practicing for war.

All I know is this: humans kill humans.

Who gets to decide who the enemy is?

Duhda-duhda-duh

The maneuvers seem to end; there is silence.

But continues to rattle inside of me.

The rooster crows. The grandbaby awakens.

Coffee drips, drips, drips.