The day we set the field on fire.
|We mistakenly crossed a fence;
that was our bad—we should
have known better.
Not a real fence; a fence
of common sense, a
fence in disrepair
because of us,
two boys with Dad
toting a 45 automatic
with tracer bullets…mini
flares that arc out and up
after the bullet strikes a target;
in our case, tin cans on a rock ledge.
August, dry, and blazing heat with a
field of high, dry grass. Yet how were
we to know we’d set the field afire?
A wildfire requiring the county
volunteer fire department
to fight it, with we boys
helping by beating
the flames with
Dad slumped in anxiety
after the fire was controlled;
brother Dave and I were both
shirtless on the drive home, and
I noticed a red leaf stuck to the heel
of my shoe. Some road trip this, on the
other side of the lake, a target shooting
outing turned conflagration.
Crossing a common sense fence;
it was not too high for us that
day. And my brother and I…
two shirts ruined—but that
--a fence in disrepair