Our view of sky, jungle, and fields constricts
Into a sinkhole covered with saw grass
Undulating, soon whipped slant as the chopper
Hovers at four feet. Rapt, boot-deep in slime,
We deploy ourselves in a loose perimeter,
Listening for incoming rockets above
The thump of rotor blades; edgy for contact,
Junkies of terror impatient to shoot up.
Nothing moves, nothing sounds: then, single file,
We move across a streambed toward high ground.
The terror of the insert’s quickly over.
Too quickly…and more quickly every time…