Work. tirelessly working at something, not sure what it is. Just like ants. Carrying things above heads. Shovels, pitchforks, hoes, everybody has something in their hands. Heading up a mountain top. The earth is soft from the rain. Looking for a place to raise their flag; a marker for others to find them. Clouds grow gray. Darkness falls. They work into the night. Digging a final resting place for a comrade; limbs cut off, eyes staring up at the sky. Red blood turns black.

War is not neatly packaged. It is not pretty. Heroics go unrecognized. And here, on this mountain top, they bury their friend, a soldier, a boy of twenty-one. They drink vodka and cry. Some laugh at memories of the lad. They tell stories.

And, in the distance, there is gunfire. There are missiles being shot off by both sides. More soldiers killed civilians, too. Some say peace will never come. Others hold out hope for victory. A win. At what cost?