The boy on the in-line skates
flings himself down the walking path,
swooping and curving around us
mere walkers, leaving his friends
lurching behind. See the look
in his eye. Enthusiasm pours from him
like flakes of light from the scales
of a sunlit koi, or of fire from a burning
pine cone. The supervisors who voted
money for this path did not know
they did it for him, for his special glee,
but he has come to possess it.
Now he turns his back to urge on his lagging
companions, shouting his joy, pirouetting,
lashing on the slackers with his agile tongue.
The density, intensity of his experience
today quite sweeps us all away
in its flare, its heat, its vibrancy.
''Come on,'' he shrills. ''It's a race
from here to the boat dock!''