On Escaping Foreign Armies

Tree to tree he moves
His heartbeat a hoof beating
Safely inside its stable.
Slowly, foot in front of foot,
Like walking a tightrope
Cloaked in late-night nothingness.
A candle burns on a distant windowsill.
He is trying to remain unseen,
Or, at least, not wounded.
For what is this worth, these nights?
Too much thought goes into it,
And all answers are eventually scrapped.
His head is reeling. The whistle
Of a water wheel spinning.
On the front porch of a small house
In a no-name border town
He wraps upon a heavy oak door.
“Who is it?” asks a muffled undertone.
“A soldier,” he replies.