The transmission shifts down, and
a volley of light spatters the windshield.
Waiting for us on the reverse slope
is a blazing regiment of sun soldiers. They fire and reload.
The glass is all glowing dust, dragged web,
mineralized entrails of bugs
made into a phosphor,
a blinding euphoria, a flourish,
a hissing matchhead, and the slopes of Beaverton
shimmer beyond the flame.
in response to this Morning Porch post
3 comments:
The "reverse slope" of a ridge is simply "the far side from the battlefield." In musket & cannon warfare, a commander would commonly station infantry on the reverse slope, where they would be out of sight and hopefully out of cannon-shot. When the enemy advanced over the hill -- there the line would be, ready to deliver an unexpected volley. I always think of that, when I come over the ridge of the West Hills, driving from Portland into Beaverton.
Oh, wow, what a glorious set of images. You've just changed the way I see the world.
Oh, thank you, dear Rachel!
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