Firestorm

One day when I was just a little lad,
Dad took us out to shoot a 45.
My older brother and I felt alive;
(as desperado outlaws, we were bad.)

Within a field beyond a little lake,
the August sun dried out the willow grass.
To shoot that pistol seemed too good to pass;
we soon would be aware of our mistake.

A 45 delivers blast and kick,
but in addition bullets traced with flair.
That is to say they flared within the air
when bullets hit a can or stone or stick.

We shot our targets and we watched the flares;
they arced beyond a gently sloping hill.
The three of us as marksmen basked in thrill;
(sometimes you strain your luck and then it tears.)

Then horseback riders came within our view,
and they approached with an intensive pace.
My father wore a shocked look on his face;
they gave us news--our consternation grew.

They said the field beyond began to blaze;
(in fact they wondered if we were aware.)
An outdoor shooting turned into a scare;
this fire news left us within a daze.

We hastened up the hill to see the storm;
the field ablaze like Hades had a cause.
The thought of tracer bullets gave us pause--
this outing quickly went beyond the norm.

My brother and I took our shirts off fast;
we beat the flames as if we were insane.
A sense of panic mitigated pain;
we acted as a conflagration cast.

Somebody notified authorities,
and soon the firefighters came along.
Without acknowledging a bit of wrong,
two siblings fought field flames up to their knees.

In time the blaze was stopped for nature’s sake;
the three of us all slumped within the car.
But father didn’t have to drive too far;
he stopped and tossed the gun into the lake.


40 Lines [Rhythm: 10]
Writer’s Cramp
May 8, 2014