From the top of Horsebarn Hill,
halfway down on the side
where the grass grows to tassels
and the wildflowers lean
into the afternoon sun,
I could see a red, tube-shaped kite
stuck in a tree
like a giant squid
collapsed over arboreal coral,
tentacles of knotted string and ribbons
dangling from the bottom.
I looked for it each time
I scaled the hill with the dogs,
watched it shred in the wind,
pale under the summer sun,
but the kite hung on,
its thin wooden bones
cradled by thick branches.
Then one day it was gone.
Not a trace of red nylon in the long grass
or among the black-eyed Susans and daisies.
I figured it had fallen,
gone away on the wind
as kites are born to do,
swimming the air currents
like the sea creature I imagined.
