Gustatorial

by Todd Mercer

The kite was carried away
by updrafts into May afternoon. The string
snaps or slips on every kid, once, at least,
and sails the square of color to where
you can’t spot it. But your brother
who has clearer vision says he sees a speck
that’s smaller than a bird. It’s just below the sun,
lurching leeward into the next township,
bound to flutter-fall, a mess of snapped sticks
and nylon shredding, as the Spring comes on.