Long steep climb to a tower away from the horde. Beyond the crenelated gun sights rolls the bad guys' country, a valley where corn sang in people's bones. Mongolian wind kisses my cheek too roughly. Straight down, Kodak film paper wrappers lie strewn among chunks of ancient mortar. A giggling Korean boy flings his can of Coke.
Chinese graffiti is etched on every brick.
Two thousand winters ago other soldiers stamped their feet, dusted snow from black fur hats, studied those same hump-backed hills. They saw an icy horizon, clouds of their breath in retreat. Light a signal fire, Tell the guy in the next lookout to hit the sack, no one's been spotted for days. Tell him we're all foreigners, all afraid of the dark, and tonight the only assault will come from an army of stars. We believe artists were slaves.