Burning Prairies
The fire had ravaged across the plains for days, taking with it many acres of gnarled barley, burled corn, and a few ramshackle towns. The authorities had arrived on time but just one year after the collapse of the markets, the farmers could no longer afford the insurance necessary for protecting their lands.
Poor and without hope, Dara knew his father’s farm would be lost. He also knew the racist firemen would not waste their water on a black man’s property. So, he sat on the corner of his measly half-acre and worked out his losses on a spare piece of news-sheet. Mr. Crow’s farm would have been saved by now, no doubt his ranch house protected and his family safe. Who knew where Tyrone and Nigella were; an hour ago they would have been panicking, forced to pick whatever cotton they could save on Mr. Crow’s land even as the flames licked at their heels.
Dara sighed. Nightfall was approaching, after which his mother and brother would not be able to return home safely. His prematurely wizened features crinkled as he thought of their fate. The withering flames crackled and cackled, their soft glow casting shadows and highlights on his dirty oily skin. Brow furrowed, he sighed once more and dropped his heavy face into his leathery hands.
He heard the steady rhythmic pattern of Nigella’s feet. He looked up and saw what he thought was Jim Crow’s Model A. It seemed unlike that Mr. Crow would show kindness to poor black folk, but there he appeared to be, having driven Tyrone and Nigella to safety.
But the orange haze and choking smoke plays tricks on his mind yet again. He wakes up anxious and fearful. Vietnam is dangerous this year. Lying there he can’t forget his family, dead in the burning prairies on old Jim Crow’s watch.
Saigon is drenched in choking smoke and covered in orange haze today; just like Oklahoma was, that day, three decades ago.
