Under a Angry Moon
Last night the blood orange moon hung low in the sky, as if some celestial giant had impressed his dirty thumbprint into the heavens themselves. In ancient days astronomers might have read ominous portends in that lidless eye. It seemed somehow fitting, for under that baleful moon I returned to the FOB. As our helicopter thundered into the LZ (Landing Zone) a great pillar of dust twisted round in our wake, almost as if the desert was greedily reaching out gritty arms to welcome our return. The dust carried with it the oil slick smell of rot, an old and familiar smell that traveled directly to some deep and quiet place in the back of my mind. It was a touchstone of sorts, and far and away the clearest reminder that I was once again back in Baghdad.
As soldiers scuttled off the Blackhawk, each to their respective units, my journey took a bright turn. For despite the late hour our TOC was full of warm and friendly faces. The next few minutes were a tide of happy reunions that washed away the arid bitterness that had seemed to hang in the dusty air. As for my leave back home - I will save that for another day when the jetlag has faded and leaving my love doesn't rest as heavy on my heart.



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