They sit in rows on rusted line,
Above the fields, past frost and pine.
No sound, no rush—just morning air,
And something still and waiting there.
The middle ones sleep, heads tucked tight,
While two keep watch at either side.
Sharp eyes that scan the open land,
Like sentinels who understand.
The world is hushed, the sky half-blue,
As if the day isn’t sure it grew.
I stop to watch, not sure just why,
A quiet shared beneath the sky.
No call to flight, no need to speak,
Just wire, cold wind, no hide-and-seek.
And in their stillness, something true:
We can rest when a few still view.
They face the cold, they face it still,
A quiet strength, a steady will.
By Herbert Harper