The Kite

Today I watched a boy fly his kite. It didn't crackle in the wind - but gave out a barely perceptible hum. At a certain height, I'd swear I heard it sing. He could make it climb in any wind; could crank those angles up, make it veer with the precision of an insect targeting a sting; then he'd let it roil in rapturous finesse, a tiny bird in mid-air courtship. When lightning cracked across the cliff - (like quick pale flicks of yak-hair fly-whisks) - he stayed steady. For so long he kept his arms up, as if he knew he'd hoist that kite enough. I asked if it was made of special silk, if he used some particular string - and what he'd heard while holding it. He looked at me from a distance, then asked about my alms bowl, my robes, and about that for which a monk lives. It was then I saw I could tell him nothing in the cohort wind, that didn't sound illusory.