The flag stands tall, yet furrowed upon itself in humble deference to the scene. The rotting tree trunk, bathed in sidelight, appears quite natural. The bodies beyond do not. The young boy, scarred with fear, looks older. The bugler stoically does his duty. Old Glory attempts to cover the commander’s expression of regret. The stormy sky has lifted. The sun is setting on the hapless souls. At the foot of the honor guard grow a few backlit sprigs of wild wheat- a dim hope in an otherwise ironic “harvest of glory.”