FIRE

Packed in like sardines

with our luggage

more than needed

the newbies, jet-lagged and agog

supplies and groceries, enough for weeks

tucked into every crevasse

seven, altogether, in the Rover

lurching down the highway

at the end of the dry season

from Bolívar, to Guri

across la Gran Sabana

glowing hot and overladen

And the selva smouldered

where smoke plumes echoed

lightning's ghosts

more substantial even than the general haze

little white crosses

everywhere

clustered like crocuses

but with plastic flowers

where the dead were remembered

And arrived, half a day into a two-hour trip

with our tires on

fire

with apologies for the - slight - geographic license taken with our actual route