Mountain boy, blond thatch, chin dimple,
Loved the rills and ridges, stomped
The thickest pines, drank sweet waters.
The call that changed him, seemed
The most just thing a boy could do.
Defend his mommy, pop and crew.
Gunneries they were and proud
Of flag, captain and each other.
Yet, on June 6, every soul withered.
He fought and lived, praying now
Now not so much for victory and flag,
But to once again cross his mountain
And hear the splash of his nameless creek.