The little girl, pink wool coat with rust-red
stripe across the breast, belt-line soiled from days
of hiding here, stands stone-still in snow—head,
neck, and shoulders covered by scarf, its gray
and black thin stripes forming wide squares across
white cotton, loose pale tassels at its base
trailing across her chest like ragged, floss
icicles. We’re in the Hindu Kush, faced
with trying to find and kill Osama.
Our secret sortie’s taken a year. Search
and deploy, not search and destroy. When a
shout shot from the cave, we covered and perched
to fire. Then she stepped out and stared. Recouped,
we learned she’s lost. We’ll feed her bread and soup.
Roger Armbrust
October 7, 2008
