Canonized

The tender eyed boy of barely ten years delivers another round to the unseen soldier just beyond the cannon’s barrel.  His gentle hands gingerly carry the canvas wrapped shell and three ounces of gun powder in a simple leather pouch held inches from his heart.  Though footed on high and distant ground, his step is small and hesitant.  The thunder of distant cannons in the valley roll up on the ridge with an intensity rivaling his last round.  His older brother, the guardian of dozens more rounds, wears his own guarded mask.  Even the old man who has lived his life stares haplessly at the sight of the truly shell-shocked victims of the battle.  Numb to the grip on his pipe, its aroma a distant memory, it now may ignite the next fuse.  This is a day like no other.  The background hills almost seem like they’re on fire; Tornado like fingers tauntingly touch the horizon from a line of dark clouds.  The sun is eclipsed and even the very earth on which our three unwitting souls stand has cracked open under the pressure.  Tomorrow may serve another ominous round of the end of times, but our three saints are this day and always our “canonized” servants of humanity.