Early in this evil year comes autumn. I walk in the fields at night, the cold wind at my hat, the rain rattles…And you? And you, my friend?   You are standing—perhaps—and scanning the sickle-moon vault over forests in its little arcing bends and bivouac fire, red in the jet-black valley. You are sprawling—perhaps—in a field of straw, sleeping, and soft dew falls on your forehead, your armor of a war-jacket.   You could be on horseback tonight, stationed at the outpost, peering out, gun in fist, whispering to your horse, stroking away its fatigue… Perhaps—I think—you are spending the…