Crystal-clear at sunrise: I’m aware of every smudge and scratch on my glasses. A wood pewee’s call reduced to a single, interrogatory note.


  1. Coming up over Vista Ridge

    The transmission shifts down, and
    a volley of light spatters the windshield.
    Waiting for us on the reverse slope
    was 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.

    1. Nice. An earlier draft of my post included the phrase “blisters of sun on the leaves.”

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