Summer bike ride in Chickamauga

Other than the fact that I was on a bicycle
And, from time to time, there were cars and trucks
Whizzing past me, on Highway 27,
Down towards Summerville or up
Towards Fort Oglethorpe and Rossville,
My heart still beats with the wonder:
Visualizing, clearly in my mind's eye,
Teeming thousands of young men
In blue woolen and homespun cotton grays
Or browns or whatever was easy
And came to at hand,
Like chessmen on a chessboard,
Flags waving in the wind,
Horses snorting, pawing at the dirt
Wagons and caissons rumbling across
The green meadows of Indian summer,
The staccato drum beats, black powder and metal exploding,
With Longstreet's surprising presence, thrust through the trees,
And Thomas's perseverance,
Taking aim at each other
From behind the thick foliage and fallen oaks, the pines and maples
Of North Georgia
To wrest control of these few acres
Of red clay, and for what?
To scoot back down the road,
Find a moment's rest and peace,
For the time being,
To lob hastily-fashioned canisters
Down into an occupied city
Down toward the canvas tents and campfires below
Gleaming in the darkness
Until, that old devil Grant,
Could show himself
And send those tough, Midwestern farm boys
Back up the hillsides surrounding Chattanooga
To retake the high ground
And leave an adequate place
As monument to their efforts
And a significant number of gravestones,
Until peace passing could find its bearings
Among the tender leaves
Which now provide some sort of shelter
From the furnace-sun burning
My arms and legs
On this fine August morning.