KITE ON A STRING

It soars.

High in the sky.

Carefree and buoyant.

Riding the eddies and air currents.

Catching the sun.

Ascending, swooping, looping.

Gliding. Freewheeling.

Turning cartwheels.

Seemingly uninhibited. Even inebriated.

But tied down.

Tethered by a string.

Held by a pair of hands.

Which tug at it every so often.

Keeping a hold on it.

Preventing it from flying away.

Sometimes, winding the string.

To bring it closer to earth.

At others, slackening it.

Setting it loose.

Affording it release.

Allowing the kite, its whims.

So it bobs. Flutters. Sinks.

As it is manipulated, coaxed, cajoled.

 

And while the kite wants no attachment,

The hands want control.

Seek dominance over others’ kites.

Respond to threats.

Engaging, warring, entangling with rivals.

Cutting off their strings.

To send them scurrying away,

Captive to whatever wind that is blowing.

Or collapsing uncontrollably to the ground.

Its life in shreds.

 

The kite.

A life of its own.

But the mind,

its master’s.