Taxing the limits of gravity,
swinging ever higher, thrusting tiny
shoes toward a misty ceiling.
Restrained only by thin
links to an arc:
Restrained from flight.
Brushing low, then elevating heavenward,
propelled into weightlessness.
A Dove flutters in them.
Working to flee from exalted mouths,
This spirit flies aloft as the links slacken
Bringing an uncomfortable silliness to tiny chests.
Again and again they kick.
Searching for the ecstatic
high of weightlessness.
Circling above, an Eagle, unrestrained.
Aloft it flutters on a gust,
Dipping and dropping.
Hovering above the park
the Eagle waits for a Dove
to exodus from a child’s throat.
Suspended above the playground,
waiting for the moment to snatch that joy
and tear it with its talons.
South of the Strait 