The Night Mission

We cross the tall grass, first.
Moving like panthers
in the thick dark night.
Heading toward the light,
that shines in the far blue yonder.
No words are exchanged,
but the looks we give are enough.
Heart rate at slow to stopping,
palms as hot as irons
resting in the fire.
Foreheads drip, drip, drip.
The squeeze of a boot
and the wheeze of someone
who can’t quite breathe.
On a night mission –
a wade through
with stealthy progress.
And the probability
of never coming back.