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At night after all the
day's light is gone the prairie fire expresses a strength almost as
compelling as a flamenco dancer who cracks the soles of her shoes against
the floor. Click, crack, stamp, goes the sound from her feet and it is
like the audible range of fire burning on the ground. There is a regular
snapping connected with an occasional zipping of a spewing of some
bigger, more fibrous plant holding enough moisture to explode in this
way.
The red of the dancer's skirt plays rapidly back and forth as her
hands jerk it just so, making us wonder about the rhythm of it and the
intensity of her concentration and the power of her actions. So too, is
the burning of the flames of that fire. The wind jerks the flames about,
back and forth, slowly but then, again, quickly with a passion to run it
from one place to another with ease. Those who are observers are at once
petrified with the power. Hurry, quickly, hurry, stop it, contain it if
you can.
Memories are registered of fires during the day light hours when our
brave sister ran to open gates in many pastures. No one had a thought to
do that. They were too busy trying to keep buildings from being overrun
and destroyed. The cattle and horses who couldn't run ahead of the blaze
because they came up against barb wire closed gates were an after thought
to men who were trying to save their family's shelter. Only one fiery,
brave little woman could answer the challenge of that entity. Ultimately,
no one even knew she had done this. No one but the angels for the animals
because they ran with her and she actually felt she saw those higher
powers in action when the fire burned up to one ranch house, split in the
middle and burned all around it before it raced on it way in greed for
taller and more rank pastures.
But more than the activity is the particular odor it holds. There is
nothing like it. How can an odor that is so dangerous and so
uncontrollable bring such pleasure. The smell of burning grass to be like
a gift only enjoyed but occasionally in one's life. Even for miles the
smoke wafts across the terrain, dipping down here, traveling on higher
there, and generally flirting with all who are aware of the memories being
evoked by its presence. Was there was a dark night like this when we were
children looking on from a safe distance? The black silhouette of the men
who were busily running, back and forth against the red of the background
of fire registered in our mind and is an eternal imprint. Maybe it was the
time the fire was raging so that our Mother had a worried look on her
face. Or was it the night after the tired men were retired, exhausted and
black faced while nothing was left but the cold, wet, conquered prairie?
The fire was the enemy but it was warm. Now all is cold and subdued. Even
emotion has been smothered by the successful men. The feel is dark and
depressing instead of happy and elated as when the fire danced for them.
Exhausted minds and bodies have used the last of their adrenaline and now
only lethargy after the first call to action remains. The flamenco dancer
has stopped in an instant and is in place, holding her rebellious stance,
as she triumphs over the pounding rhythm of the guitar and she is only
waiting for another opportunity to perform again.
Sometimes a fearsome war, when it is over, brings those who were
fighting closer to one another. And, it is often the way with these
prairie people when they walk away from the blackened ash, arm and arm
together, or maybe they stand embracing while their children hold to their
legs. |
