Apollinaire lifted his pen and laid his notebook on the single dry patch of soil beside the butt of his Lebel. He turned from his seated position onto his haunches and raised his eyes to ground level to peer across a dormant battlefield in the French countryside. There were but a few meters of disheveled soil before the green grass took up its indifferent reign of the dale and seeing something of interest he raised his arm and plucked from the dirt before him a twisted piece of shrapnel probing the sharp point with his forefinger as his arm retracted. The chunk of metal felt heavy as he sat it in his palm, and he began to examine its contortions and jagged edges while he turned to take his seat again with his back against the earth. He held it up to his eye and peered through its point as if it were the sight on the barrel of his rifle. Then, as if his inspection had found the object a fraud, he tossed it out of the trench and back into the dirt where he had found it. He wiped his head with the back of his hand, retreived his notebook and pen and to continue to write.