Watching the mist rising from the ground.
Waiting in line watching men become found.
Wreaking of alcohol they toe the line.
Talking frankly of women they did find.
The First Sergeant calls them to attention.
All are accounted for in this instance.
To begin the morning run in cadence.
All voices marching along in patience.
The sun comes up as the battalion sings.
This moment I wish to experience again.
To be a part of a finely oiled machine.
Death dealing our motto if God does not intervene.
A right of passage some would say.
But I dream of the civilian world being done this way.
We would make formation in the morning to be.
One with the ground under our feet.
One with the sky above our heads.
One with the blood pumping through our chests.
The point of living is to be alive.
To toe the line each day as if you have just arrived.