First a compass, so as to know where one is.
Vibrant red needle behind the bloodstained
glass, snug in its small box of medieval wood,
chocolate veined with cherry.
A breeze tilts at the tufted remnants of grass,
and a bird cries in its distress like a spill
of angels, talkative as allegory.
A fat child wanders from the caravan,
exploding dirt-clods with idiotic delight,
windmilling for balance in its clumsy snowsuit.
The leader of the sharpshooters
shouts it back into the scooping arms of its mother,
who races away towards the wagons,
scolding the little snowman with soothing words.
Say hello to the future, the gunmen laugh,
fear venting like steam amid the smiles.
In the distance the weary scouts top the hill and wave.
Their tribe looks tiny from here. A smudge of ink stains
at the center of a yellow map the edges of which
have just caught fire.