The fire’s gone out
in the last wooden hut
Fresh snow has been falling,
cold hunger abuts
The Red Coats emboldened
in far Germantown
The wind carries stillness,
with death all around
A General stands watch
on the farthest of hills
His heart never waivers,
his anger instills
The firewood gone
but the embers still burn
O’er forests and rivers,
to Paris in turn
The Schuylkill runs quiet,
Lenape scouts have returned
“Our enemy grows fat, Sir,
in taverns that burn”
The outcome awaiting,
its body count high
Where cabins though frozen
—the stars and stripes fly
(Valley Forge: November, 2020)
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