A bit of an experiment I have been thinking and working on. Fictive moments. Cinematic vignettes. Images. Minimal ornamentation. A story that is mostly told by not being told. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ In a cold field of gray and stubbled grass, six soldiers stand in a circle smoking. A chill fog swallows their words. Their long coats flap in a desultory wind. Before them, at their feet, at the center of their circle, a blossom grows from a small and cooling form, one bright color marking the early arrival of another, as dull as the fog, as the field, as the uniforms. They stand, as stiff and still as the stalks about them and as dry. At the edge of the field, a crow coughs and climbs into the sky.