XXII
by Micah Ling
Nighttime and we sneak to the field where the pick-up trucks are parked like a pack of tired dogs. The tallest boy carries beers, cooled in the creek all afternoon. We turn the radio and headlights on in the truck furthest from the ranch. The beams run through the field to the east side of the hill where mule deer glare back. Their eyes are small flames. The short boy cranks the radio music up loud enough to move hips and feet. Versions of this are going on in each corner of the world. There is a whole language of snapping and grooving. Someone drums the bed of the truck; another keeps time with a stick on the hitch. We are kids dancing, not because of age or innocence, because of music. Because of the knowing that this is why there is melody and light and hips to jive.
