Repeat Visit
I drive through the battlefield at Gettysburg,
past fields of corn and monuments of stone,
imagining their charge and defense,
their courage.
I curve around maple and oak on asphalt,
passing Spangler’s Spring and Culp’s Hill.
Then the sound of a flute, not certain it is a flute.
Faint on the air, stronger on the approach,
the music leads to a low rise, and
just beyond I see the uniform, blue and pressed.
Feet together, fingers exact, notes clear,
now finishing.
He nods, returning to his car,
where his wife sits reading a paperback novel.
originally published in The Binnacle
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