Cast-off from our home port, my
Four vessels sail into town on the
Prowl; Our mission quite simple –
It is called. We have another name
For it: Reconnaissance by drawing fire.
We receive this mission often.
So set sail we must, to spend another day
In the harpoon-lands, adrift in a sea
Of streets, corners, and alleyways.
Each man at his perch with intent
Gaze as we troll back and forth through
The neighborhoods. But we seek no whales,
Our prey hunts back, shark-like. And when we
See locals growing restless two streets down
The feeling comes on. We are the boat and
The chum all in one. Patience – wait for it –
Shots finally piercing the relative calm
We turn left in unison:
The Pale Horse
The White Horse
The Red Horse
And the Black Horse.
Our gun barrels erupt – the hunt is on.