The helicopter flew into our forests two days ago, chopping the air like a large dragonfly with gauze wings splayed, plastered in metal and broken. We heard it in the dawn and I wiped the dew wet inside my ears so that I could hear it again, chopping the air through our trees. The men jumped up, and so did he, hush-hushing the fear and surprise. I forgot to breathe. We found it today, sunning itself, its shadow short in the high hours of noon, waiting. By the time I got to it, running, yelling, victory in my ears, the men had already gotten to the pilot. He drooped over the side of the rusted door with a small red hole on one side of his head and a large splash of black death yawning on the other, his army uniform scattered in green shaded shreds. A bullet can take away a lot with it; it comes in like a thief and leaves like a drunkard.
I climbed onto the top of the metal creature, beating its green head with my fists, thinking it would crush in like a tin cup, victory in my ears. But no, the enemy would be stronger, I hurt my hand, there was blood on metal oozing, I did not care. I had wrestled a beast and put it to …show more content…
I remember how I used to see sunlight in the cracks cutting through the door, my parents asleep in the next room, and I would pick my doko and head into the golden green hills, chopping firewood, cutting cattle grass, feeling the ground cold brittle fresh with my bare feet. I used to cut whole days, climb trees with my axe, enter bushes shoulder-high with my sickle. And at the end of the day, wherever I may be, on whichever hill or on whatever tree, he used to find me. And he would carry my doko for me all the way back every day so that my back would not tire and grow crooked like that sickle, he would say, you are already as mean as that sickle, now I don’t want you to be as ugly as it, pointing to the sickle tucked at my waist. And I laughed inside, but I pretended to be angry and I continued to be mean. He only
I climbed onto the top of the metal creature, beating its green head with my fists, thinking it would crush in like a tin cup, victory in my ears. But no, the enemy would be stronger, I hurt my hand, there was blood on metal oozing, I did not care. I had wrestled a beast and put it to …show more content…
I remember how I used to see sunlight in the cracks cutting through the door, my parents asleep in the next room, and I would pick my doko and head into the golden green hills, chopping firewood, cutting cattle grass, feeling the ground cold brittle fresh with my bare feet. I used to cut whole days, climb trees with my axe, enter bushes shoulder-high with my sickle. And at the end of the day, wherever I may be, on whichever hill or on whatever tree, he used to find me. And he would carry my doko for me all the way back every day so that my back would not tire and grow crooked like that sickle, he would say, you are already as mean as that sickle, now I don’t want you to be as ugly as it, pointing to the sickle tucked at my waist. And I laughed inside, but I pretended to be angry and I continued to be mean. He only