While in our time darkness. I turned to my old friend Walt Whitman. His Civil War prose from my well thumbed volume “The Portable Walt Whitman” Penguin Classics. I’ve dragged this thing around with me maybe 20 years now.

In particular given our current adventures I’ve been reading his Hospital notes. Written while a scribe with the Interior Department. After his duties he’d go over to the overflowing soldiers hospitals spread about Washington City.
Much like current field hospitals going up in Central Park as I post.

He would give comfort to those of both sides. He’d listen give little gifts of writing paper pencils hard candy. Take mail from them, and whatever small, but vital kindnesses he could.
As he wrote the listening the just being there seemed to these men the greatest gift.

These survivors from our worse most bitter war.
They were boys young teens to older gents like myself. These who fought in this Republic’s most harsh of People’s wars. They tore slashed burned, and shot each other to tatters. This for an idea. America is an idea,…a still disputed one.

Now here we are at yet a new stage of that on going great contest. Still imagining Dreams. Our direction as a "Community of Communities" still being decided though now in the face of Viral opponents.
The outcome remains as it has so long been,…Uncertain.

(…My tunic of the 9th U.S. Colored Volunteer Infantry below.)