Trees and bushes grow hostile
losing the innocense of day
bringing forth secrets whose revelation
the valley must fear.

Here and there
the staccato points of cigarettes
men gathered around
only the archtypal campfire missing.

Deep in the bunkers conversation
sometimes of nearby battles
concern for friends in unknown danger
often of the streets of San Francisco
the beautiful cars
the distant women
the rain sometimes gentle sometimes raucous
gentle to those with tent or makeshift shack
a comfort to be dry and resting with
the murmur of raindrops evoking feelings
of former days and comforts.
To those without, up in the mountains
huddled under ponchos or
pretending to be above caring,
misery, and cold.

He sits looking out the slit in the bunker
watching dusk close down the daylight world
enjoying Maryjane.

Day is done.
No, in the distance guns pop.
artillery hounds the enemy.
Night has begun.