a little too drunk on a late afternoon

Wind in the hair,
smoke in the lungs,
mushy in the mind,
tight knot in the stomach.
 
I was pushing beyond all limits
on a remote village road.
Everything was a haze,
a purple haze.
The farmers returning from the fields
were drifting over the landscape
like ghosts.
 
It was a sharp turn.
A creature
or the mind’s silly prank,
strange and impish,
darted in front of me
from the thorny fences.
I lost control, thrown
and skidded across the road
on loose gravel –
each grain of sand
rubbing against flesh.
I was a bloody mess
in tattered clothes
and dripping warm liquid.
 
The road was empty.
I stood up
towering
against the sugarcane fields
and gazed
at a curled-up leathery ball
at the other end.
I dragged my numb leg
and limped
my way to the object.  
It was motionless.
As I approached
the seemingly weird
piece of relic,
it unfurled back to life
and disappeared
into the tall blades of grass.
I was a bloody mess
in a sacred space.
It was a giant armadillo.
 
The hunger pangs
and the sting
were getting too real.
As I struggled to start the bike,
the ghosts
evaporated into the afternoon heat.