Kite.

A kite flies over the winter beach before me. It is red and green and wonderful, ducking and weaving, apparently flying free.

On the other end of the string stands a solitary man, he has the beach to himself today. He is still, contemplative, solid.

I want him to let go of the string, let that kite fly, truly free, but he insists on holding it down, controlling it. Is his soul up there?

He doesn't need the kite. He could stand alone on this beach and fly, let his soul fly.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com