juvenile

Under the moon, amongst the fireflies, we rage. With youthful fury, we beat the metal dragon, the sleeping machine threatening our woods. We smash its glass eyes with knotted tree branches and stab its tires with pocketknives and stuff its wounds full of pine straw. The fire of leaves and lighter fluid heats our upturned faces and shines in our young eyes. Covered in sweat and full of pride, we marvel at our easy victory, but a nearby dog starts barking, and I begin to leave but my friend remains. I call to him, but he walks transfixed toward the dying beast, his body only a small shadow in the roaring inferno. And then: his shadow extinguished. I flee before the beast consumes me also. The wind picks up, and thunder rumbles as I walk toward the memory of home. Wrestling tears and turbulent thoughts, I wonder what had compelled my friend into the flames. Out of breath, I stop and hear a distant grinding sound I cannot yet comprehend. Could the beast have survived? No, I shake it off and continue forward, arrogant in my youth.