Scraps

Spring awakens with the sounds of metal dragging the ground, out numbering the bird calls, the mill is jarred out of slumber

Men walk the lane, shuffling feet recognize the path to the tunnels, loving the day, the air, the clean, spring air

The day grows long, once the light is dimmed and abandoned, while men work deep underground

Silver, gold, copper, a line is pushed, the metal fragments fit into the mold, molten scraps turned to liquid

Bombs and bullets are born

Men die