Before there was Fire

A grassy field, waving willow-like
to the whim-like meanderings of August air.
Here and there, a path, a modicum of clearing
right off the two-lane road, a trail from atop
the ridge accessing pollywog pools far to the east.

And we, the three of us, father, brother and I,
we were mere mortals set for adventure,
just your average residential rogues
from the other side of time, a dad and two boys,
caught up in the eagerness that was our due,
riding like outlaws with gold teeth, torn bandanas, and guns.

In truth, there was just one gun, Dad’s
45 caliber pistol, yet we were all Jesse James.
And our target shooting escapade had to be precise,
for we were precise with power, that which was the cold
steel of barrel, this assemblage that allows for the quicksilver
flight of lead into glass bottle, tin can or even the bark of tree--
this allowed us to face the wind, and conquer horizons.

And that we did, from a vantage point not too far off the road,
our target defenseless litter blithely unleashed by civilization.
We found a board, and some concrete block, and readied
our makeshift site in which to take aim, and fire.

The bullets blasted into metal and wood, explosions rang.
My brother and I, especially I, would have to grip tight with both
hands, and even then the kick would spike outstretched arms skyward.
But that was minor seizure to shoulder, because glee and grin
owned this day, and pain be dammed, for we were not about to share.
Yet share we would, for the bullets we released contained
tracers, flares that arced up and over the ridge, and into dry grass.

Two riders on horses rode down from the ridge to where we stood.
“Do you guys know that the field is on fire?” they asked us.
Suddenly, we were outlaws no more, but prisoners of fear,
with Dad, especially panicked, for he would express, again and again,
his fear that our bullets may have killed someone, up and beyond the ridge.

The fire raged across nature’s willow-thin face, and to this day
I can hear her cries. Someone called the fire department--who exactly,
I am not sure. Soon there were many in the field, and I recall the fire-
fighting accoutrements and the human urgency...and the burning.
I, this boy outlaw, with aching arm and long abandoned grin, thrashed flame
until my shirt was black, as brother helped our defeated father to the car.

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