These hills worth dying for.

You throw your bones upon grassy knolls, and feel the dirt under your skin, the enemy has inched too close, even if only still measured by feet, not a plain intrusion no but close enough to feel its thunder, close enough that you cannot sleep, your whole gentry set to the yards, covering the fence, all betrayals will be met with swift punishment, all the men being told they will not be
allowed to go under, they cannot relent, station to station the next 24 hours, the greedy watch, taking up the grandest energies for the fortifying. And now your bones, your nerves are a jangle, a jumbled mess of powerless wires, But you're leaning upon a great pack of pride, along with the provisions you've stored for battle after battle in this war of degrees. You've already exchanged pleasantries, which you are convinced have fallen to the fray: so this is get even time, line in the sand time, tooth and nail time. This is the hill you've chosen now worth dying for-- its matter does not consume you, you say, but this is where you've told all your friends you will be, where the calls are being forwarded to. Amigo, you hear the hooves of the horses, the boots of the warriors, you've waged your war, now bend your knee to the sod, grab the clay until your nails are caked by it. This is your last grit of tour de force, the testament to the world that no ground is ever ill-gotten.