Six miles away, McDowell had planned his battle And planned it well, as far as such things can be planned⁠— A feint at one point, a flanking march at another To circle Beauregard’s left and crumple it up. There were Johnston’s eight thousand men to be reckoned with But Patterson should be holding them, miles away, And even if they slipped loose from Patterson’s fingers The thing might still be done. If you take a flat map And move wooden blocks upon it strategically, The thing looks well, the blocks behave as they should. The science of war is moving live men like blocks. And getting the blocks into place at a fixed moment. But it takes time to mold your men into blocks And flat maps turn into country where creeks and gullies Hamper your wooden squares. They stick in the brush, They are tired and rest, they straggle after ripe blackberries, And you cannot lift them up in your hand and move them. —A string of blocks curling smoothly around the left Of another string of blocks and crunching it up⁠—