In the park three robins gather around a tree.
Eddie runs toward them calling,
Birdy! And they take off
with short, sure strokes
to the wrought-iron fence
where finches dart from the brush -
wings beating quick as light, and overhead
a 707 drones across the sky.
So you show him how
holding your arms away
from your sides you run
with quick, short steps.
The wind picks up and you turn
into it. Your hair blows
off your face and you say: Flying.
And Eddie runs, arms outstretched,
body pitched forward, head
thrown back, laughing,
trying to make the new word.
Fy-in, he says, over and over
until he gets it right: Fy-ing.