Civil
War
photo by Matthew Brady.
DEFENDING THE POINT The sky is
is
overcast, and a haze rests on the green foliaged mountain.
A quiet calm
bonded with the mist, broken only by the laughter of a child. As I enter the park through my eyes are riveted to the cannons. Silent and useless now, they stand
the stone fence arch,
facing the valley, immortal sentinels of a in the center trills
softly
war long
of the park, their trunks dressed
from a hidden
nest.
The
lost.
in bright,
A
sleepy grove of trees lounges
mossy polka dots of green; a bird
quiet, misty afternoon is only an illusion of peace.
I
hear distant rumbling.
My cannons.
head throbbed with each low-bellied earthquake of sound exploding from the No longer serene guardians, they were manned with a fury known only to a
The haze was thicker, but it wasn't a cooling mist. The air was a swirling vortex of choking rifle smoke which issued from a thousand splaying guns. Choking haze desperate cause.
dipped and whirled
in
dizzying circles through the woods.
