the kite

in the distance,
with the red kite
fluttering
against a low grey
sky, i see the boy,
his arms up, his
eyes focused on the
wagging tail,
the bent fabric
rippling
as it pulls against
the wind so high.
he runs, trying
hard to keep it
in the air, up
and away from
the trees, the web
of power lines,
amd when his hair
has turned white,
and he is old
and can no longer
run across a grassy
field and put afloat
a kite. he'll come
back to this and
remember the day
that he did.