by David Hunter
~ ~ ~
My leg is on fire. There are dozens of mounds of fire ant colonies in a field on the other side of the school area where bicycle racks hold the transport of those lucky students to whom we all look up. Had I been bitten by ants today? I must have been, nothing else could account for this burning pain.
We are not supposed to go into that large field, but I have to cross it to get to the opening in the corner of the chain-linked fence of the school to walk to and from our home.
Daily I find myself inexorably drawn to the ants, not unlike a moth irresistibly to the life-consuming flame. I know I ought not to get near them, having oft paid the wages of disobedience. Yet their ceaseless march, menu of what must surely be haut cuisine insects, plus the occasional warfare with other colonies combine against my otherwise strong-as-nails willpower. These ants provide me with countless hours of entertainment.
More than once I'm bit as I squat low, watching this theater of streaming characters move on and off stage. I am unaware of the ants climbing up my legs and biting me, numbed from the amount of time spent in this squatting position. That's okay, I account these bites of red-hot flames an equitable entry fee into this world of these single-minded colonists.
On the school grounds are to be found a handful of large cement drainage pipes inside which we frequently play. The pipes are so large that most of us can stand straight up in them. They serve as castles, shelter in battlefields, obstacle courses, and so much more; daily transforming into something new to accommodate the game at-hand. Mysterious words are spray-painted in these pipes. My playground companions and I are eager to decipher their hidden yet bold messages. Speculation runs rampant in this small circle of friends. We are told by the older children that they are four letter words - as if that has any special significance. We congregate inside the pipes to solve not only the mystery of the four letter words, but also to fashion new mysteries of our own which tend to spark the imagination, endless resources of energy, and youthful disposition of our group.
I'm so thirsty. Parched, I seem to recall, is the fancy word I heard somebody use once. I like that word. I wish we had a water fountain out here; I would drain it dry! Playing, noonday sun, energetic speculation, being parched, and fire ants combine to make me feel miserable.
My leg is burning. I am exhausted beyond the limits of a little boy to withstand. I really need to sleep. Sleep would be so welcome. Just a little rest, then maybe I can play with my friends in the classroom's game area some before we go home.