Above Troy, above Jericho, above Amba Aradem, above Tumebamba:
Mambres, the tourist: “Good movement on the southern flank. Don’t think it’ll matter, though.”
Jannes, the scholar: “No, certainly not. They’ll be overrun. It’s written so.”
“Oh, good show! Bravely done! Is there anything we can do for that one?”
“Maybe on the margins; they’ll be dead in three days, or four. The specific timeline is unclear.”
“I hope we’re getting all this.”
“I think so. It’s always hard to tell, at the moment. Can’t always say what’ll get recorded, and what won’t.”
“Well, cover them with glory today, until they break. Maybe that’ll help shine a light.”
They watch in silence for a spell, hair and beards grown together, each the other’s sofa. The sun, despite everything, moves across the sky in its accustomed track. The familiar stars wheel beneath their feet.