A stillness came upon the smoke-filled vale.
On a hidden horizon, the sun was but a golden smudge.
Among shattered trees, ranks formed once more.
The creak of leather, the clink of gear, none was carried on the acrid air.
No words were spoken, nor orders given.
Yet, shoulder-to-shoulder, the march of countless well-worn boots began.
As the final parade always does, silent, measured and never ending.