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Jon Swift
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The Rhythm We March
Down a westward way
toward a blood red setting sun.
Sea cliffs beat by wind
from the blue-gray wild ocean.
Heavy feet and breath
cause a quail covey to flight.
And I held a hand
as I gaze upon the moon light.
The marks are well hidden
so the world might still march to the rhythm
we march.
Without time or means
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like refugees running.
And we travel light
for our time it may be coming.
And we walk alone
for the backlash of our trials.
But let's venture on,
boldly through the hardest miles.
We leave what we live in
so the world might still march to the rhythm
we march.
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