the tractor growled, and we flew down the hill,
twisting, turning through the trees
steering handle spinning as we snuck past the fence
“This is illegal, by the way”
the grandkids are screaming, half fear, half delight
that grandpa would do something so reckless.
mentally, I am careening back across that Arcade highway
the snowplow shatters us again! I snap back to reality
jolting, the grass is high and the road is rubble
the steep hill we are climbing, fast
like the road to Kidepo, soaring over the stony hills
swerving, sliding around in the loose shale
even the dirt matches, it is orange dust
and I am 12 years old again, home and free
after burning season, the grass comes back this green
and the ash leaves charcoal traces all over your white skin.