Machete Waits

Dark worn wooden handle settled in my hand like the cheek of an infant, pressed into, shaped into, it fit.  My fingers curled around as if finding home and relaxed.  Long blade crescent black and sharp glint of metal defining razor sharp.  So light.  Two hands one blow sank deep into flesh of acacia as big around as my calves.  Each hack effective, exposing vibrant healthy pale gold.  Like ancient farmer whacking down sugar cane.  Quiet death to such strength and organic power no match for the cold cinder block construction around it and topped with terracotta tiles that absorb the ants crawling across the backbending fronds fountaining out through the topless courtyard prison.  It had to die.  Civilized concrete structure must be protected and maintained.  Machete waits. Acacia will grow back.