They step in sync, right foot forward, upon the first plank, ushering downward into the marsh. Clammy cold hands each rest the barrel on the right shoulder. The front line expressionless, one with eyes closed, they seem not to question the direction in which they march. Between the trunks of two rigid old oaks, the road gently winds back and upwards to the warmth of the sun. A flock of geese, in an alternate “formation,” fly from the foreboding dark sky towards the light. The very beat of their wings insures them they are flying the right way.