He lets fly a paper plane,
from his window airstrip, high
into gentle light that seems to welcome it.
The folded-foolscap floats and glides.
His bright eyes follow its haphazard flight:
first right then
left,
erratic as a butterfly.
Down, down it drifts,
a pleated page of insubstantial words.
It dips and stalls,
then on warm updrafts, rises again
briefly
like a despairing cry.
Oscar Milde