That windy city where I spent most of my childhood, people call it

the city of kites. We spent countless weekends on the damp

grass, sitting, watching, running along with those structures that

fly. The air was always humid, warm, easing the slight pain in

between my fingers for holding the reel too long.

I was never a great pilot, they always navigate and I follow.

Sometimes I lose focus, eyes relaxed or trace the jet lines instead,

letting that floating structure simply be an extension of myself.

Pinpointing half of me down on the earth, the other half wrapped

in a wind too far to see clearly. Sometimes it trembles down

through the far-stretching string back into my hand,

beautiful vibrations, a private wind language.

I moved to Beijing, where people aren’t as enthusiastic with the

kites, it was still common to look up and find one somewhere

floating in the sky, far enough that the strings are invisible.

I wonder why is it there, at this current moment.

Occasionally, I try to chase that kite, walking across the city

hoping to run into it, at least its anchor, its other half, what’s

possibly holding it. But as I move, they move too. Between us

there’s the wind again, much colder, opaque, translucent,

completely invisible, yet connecting me to an answer that might

be imagined. When the kites fall out of sight, where am I heading

then?