-Unattended Bonfires-

Our local high school keeps the tennis courts lit at night. Every weeknight, local amateurs stake claim on the asphalt with racket covers, tennis baskets and occasionally, serving machines. My father and I are more amateur than most, but we find an open court and trade volleys with spent tennis balls. I'm the only one using a wooden tennis racket from the 60s.

Firefighters are stacking crates on the adjacent lawn. Students are arriving in threes, fours, and sometimes clusters of ten or more. What we first believed to be hose practice is actually a pyro-pep rally for the athletic teams; the band plays spirited riffs, accompanied by chants we cannot decipher. The flames peak roughly at the height the smallest cheerleader can be shot into the air.

Of course, it wouldn't be high school if upperclassman couples didn't sneak off into the treeline to grope each other under baggy shirts, or to shake their mandibles at the tennis players. Young people safely taunt us from the shadows near the courts. The same lights that reveal our courtly imperfections give them a sneaky anonymity.

As ten o'clock approaches, the crowds on and near the court disperse. My father and I are the last to leave. We notice that the fire is still burning unattended, burning so low it appears the coals have sprouted rust-colored cilia.