from Spanish Town to the Jamaican border

“The soil is red here, you see?”

“Yes.” The dirt is being kicked up in the air- turning, churning under us. It sticks to the horses’ hooves and up, up, as if they are being painted for battle. “It makes everything look wild,” I go on, almost to myself. Almost, because he is always listening. “Like war,” my lips suggests, still looking at the muddy horse hair. But my eyes soon drift- towards the green trees and purple mountains and I shake my head quickly. “No. War is not wild.”

“You think war is not wild?” He asks in his mocking, condescending tone. I glance at his face- so petulant, so eager to outdo me. His eyes are like beetles resting on a pale mask. ‘You think you know more than you do’ I think. ‘That is the fallacy of fools’.

I look away from him, to where red runs into the blue of the sky.

“No. Nature is wild. War is human.”