They sat in their fortress and planned. They made their alliances, tribesman to tribe, future promise to weigh against pain. Then fire from the sky drenched their village in flames, flowing blood quenched the blaze, and bullets and knives wrenched their lives and their families’ away.
Men women and infants all killed on one day, in one battle, at Mystic River.
“It’s not our way.”
“Too many slain.”
“No bravery or honor in this.”
But it was the way of that land far away, and the victors gave praise, sang their bliss, and prayed “Thanks be to God.”