Marc Swan

I just went to Bosnia. It was a bumpy ride: no flight attendants,

small seats and not a window view in sight. Bodies though,

they were still there buried in hard pan in flowery glens,

sun lighted meadows. It’s summer after all with birdcall

and deer moving slowly through thick foliage as if

they had not a care in the world and red fox. I see cattle,

horses, cats, dogs, and children laughing by the road.