Suddenly, it is 1966 and I am once again playing with the neighborhood kids
at the Life Boat Station in Charleston, Oregon.

Usually, I am on the beach where the wind tangles my hair in knots.
Usually, I am riding my horse through the crow-dark forest.

Sometimes, I ride my bike past a chain-link fence that surrounds the 
naval base, where someone listens for sounds of Soviet subs under all that ocean.

Sometimes, I pick up peacock feathers in my neighbors’ pasture, 
or practice duck-and-cover at school.

Always, I hear the clanging of the American flag as it is raised and lowered
on the white metal pole outside my bedroom window.

But this day, I am hiding behind the west corner of our large 
white house, nestled between the cedar siding and a wild fuchsia.

We rock-paper-scissors to see who is the enemy. Bored from
so much waiting, I spray water on my boots from a plastic pistol, 

suck nectar from the fuchsia’s pink flowers,
keep an eye on the boy behind the trunk of a tilting pine.

When I make my move, he screams to the soldiers on his side,
The Russians are coming! The Russians are coming!