The kite

The wind blasted the south. The last of the autumn leaves scattered to the four winds, scattered in an extremely fast and violent manner.

The man found a few stolen hours in the middle of a week, he found a glorious blue sky and a kite.

When you fly a kite you look skywards, the crick in your neck feels like hope, nobody can fly a kite by looking at the ground.

When you fly a kite you have to negotiate with the wind, the very strong wind. The sort of day that many people would rather be inside out of the blastzone finds you hanging onto your kite as it wheels and dives and climbs and hovers. You negotiate, you try to negotiate, but you know all too well that the wind will always have you. Have you and beat you.

The man found a field, nothing too special, on the edge of town, but once the kite was airborne, the place was transformed.

Dog walkers hurried past, picking up their shit, saying hello and letting their animals sniff each other's backsides.

Some of them noticed the kite, some of them may have thought "What a wanker, flying a kite". Some of them may have thought "Wow, a kite, I haven't seen a kite in years." They look skyward for a moment, then they return to picking up shit.

It was a stolen moment, those are the best.