Curled black ash rained down on my brother and me playing basketball in the driveway. The ash, light, tossed in the wind, collected curled in corners like loose pubic hair. The farmers burned the cane purposefully. They followed the flame, directing it to burn row after row. Train robbers trying to control the steam locomotive with shovels.
Trains have a tendency to run away.
The fire husked the cane for them and though it burned a portion of the precious sugar it also burned the glass hairs along the stalk that itched skin and throats for days. The cane fields spread in rows like radio waves echoing out from the base of the Waianai mountain range. On these mountains, closer the peaks at the topmost corner, was a preserve, a deathbed for the last pristine area on the island. Here the rarities mingled in an elite cocktail party for the terminally ill. The Ohia Lehua rooted shallow on the cliffsides, its wood trunk dry like beach wood and its blossoms a blood red exploding out like firecrackers from light green dime shaped leaves.