The Kite
It has to wait.
The kite’s dream of flight has to start with at least a small gust of wind. The
tiniest draft can begin the kite’s fantasies of heights unknown. There it is.
It’s on its way. The thin and bright plastic stretches over the sturdy wooden
dowels and pulls it up and up. The fragile tether holding it to the ground
pulls taut.
The kite is now
soaring. It’s getting difficult to distinguish from the azure sky. The tail can
barely be seen flapping like the arms of a drowning man. A sharp tug on the string
sends it careening down, spiraling before regaining balance. The kite can go
higher until the string runs out or crashing down by incessant pulling. It
really depends on who is holding the string, if anyone.
No comments:
Post a Comment