In the late summer we saw
the leaves of the trees
falling in channels,
powdered blue and white.

We stirred, and the leaves too,
dry by the dusty house– they
looked that year of the troops
clear and bare afterward

in the sun and the water
and the rising dust. The leaves
were early that year and
the troops marching across

and down the road were a
river, and swiftly moving.
In the bed of the river there
lived pebbles and boulders

and leaves along the road
fell, and the trunks of soldiers
in the road, plain and white.
And in a village was the dust

marching to the mountains
raised by the breeze that went–
except for the house
and the trees and the..

Michael Galko, 2017

Remixed works:

A Farewell to Arms, by Ernest Hemingway