Flying

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.

Fly-in. Flying!

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