Bull Run

I just crossed over Bull Run. I’m the only soul out here. There’s just something about looking out across these fields and thinking about the blood that was spilled here that makes my troubles and discomforts petty and even childish. Oh, poor me. I can’t get along with my mean old dispatcher.
I’ve been through here before. The last time was near July 4th, I believe, and the area was overrun by tourists. I think I needed to come through here in the middle of the night. I needed that to feel a connection with the history of the place. The reality of what it is now. In the dark. The rain. The stillness. I needed to see the large herd of deer, whose many eyes reflected back at me out of the darkness. It was like being watched by the dead.
In my way, as much as I could, I paid my respects.

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