The shelling burst out from the Southern guns again. Their own batteries answered behind them. He looked at his house While the shells came down. I’d like to live in that house. Now the shelling lessened. The man with the old black knife Shut up the knife and began to baby his rifle. They’re coming, Jack thought. This is it. There was an abrupt Slight stiffening in the bodies of other men, A few chopped ends of words scattered back and forth, Eyes looking, hands busy in swift, well-accustomed gestures. This is it. He felt his own hands moving like theirs Though he was not telling them to. This is it. He felt The old familiar tightness around his chest. The man with the grass chewed his stalk a little too hard And then suddenly spat it out. Jack Ellyat saw Through the falling night, that slight, grey fringe that was war Coming against them, not as it came in pictures