The Kite


by Robin Dawn Hudechek

A kite swoops down, wasp-like
In its angry roar
flipping, turning, riding the air as sleek as
a florescent stealth bomber
The kind hippies would have made
if they went to war
In their world, stealth bombers would be kites,
gliding harmlessly through clouds.

The kite is a heart, an aviator’s heart that dreams of flights
endless and independent, yet always tethered–

fated to twist and writhe

and turn with a violence that defies–
a bone-fragile frame, at once lighter
and more clumsy than the birds it admires
It skirts the ground, which would scorch it, break it–
a prayer of sorts: to the sand, the wind, the careless tread of humans.

Yanked up once more— above the seashore
which is much less judgmental, far more forgiving
or so it seems-
The kite drops like a pelican into the surf
barely evading water that thrashes,
this ocean, a trickster of sorts, that would take
its puffed up chest, its plumage, a bold yellow print
that proclaims its toughness, its right to bully
and tear it into pieces

But the kite rises as if to escape once more–
the ground dipping below it in a rush
It is a raptor, a bird of prey
stalking targets —
which in its toy-like menace it can never quite reach:
the skittery flight of sandpipers, the pelicans lumbering and slow
and wary seagulls, much calmer and far more nimble,
who see the kite and wisely scatter.

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