Feathered creatures work the water,
while I, patient, watch.
I am eager to observe their day
and have left the busy street behind
to sit for a moment’s education.
At random, sometimes in pairs
these (terns, I believe) sudden swoop and dive.
A colourful kite might do the same
when a tied on rag tail is
either too long or too short.
Watching the birds, I remember
a farm field fading from usefulness
where weeds, victorious
bent to a wild March day
and Papa, with his children, went to play.
He was, then, a young and pied piper
who teased with an endless ball
of string that played out
until a bright, white kite
kissed grey clouds, ominous in every way.
Each thumping heart swooped,
in kite unison,
and dove easy toward depth,
rose again aloft until the string
broke.
“I will bet she’s over Jackson by now!”
He said to soothe.
Not every dive is successful.
Not every smiling beak rises,
full of silver wriggling fish.
Robert On The Air 