The battle

People sometimes say that thunder is the sound the gods make when they go bowling.  In the case of a battle, I think someone up there must be making an awful lot of strikes.  The booms of the weapons echo sometimes loud, sometimes soft.  The loud ones make me press my hands tightly against my ears like I did for firework displays as a child.  The gunshots fire rapidly like kernels of corn bursting in a heated pot.  As a sea of weather worn men in dark wool jackets and flat topped hats aim their rifles, clouds of white shoot forward following each crack.  The air mixes smoke and pine.  After a short time, lumps of men litter the dry grass.