(Picture, “The Little Prince”)
My son is the one on the Flag Football Field
staring into the night sky looking for stars.
He’s the one listening so intently to the cicada’s siren song
that he doesn’t always hear the shrill trilling
of the referee’s whistle the first time…
…or the second.
He’s the one that skips over to the huddle
with his hands clasped behind his back.
There is something so rooted about his stance,
like an ancient oak standing tall amidst
the jostling and swaying saplings surrounding him.
His teammates ebb and flow around him
like a fast moving river flows around the rock
anchored deep in the riverbed.
In the river…
…but not carried away by the river.
My son is the one who runs to me and says,
“See that little glowing light up there?”
I strain to see past the intensely bright lights
now flooding the playing fields.
“It’s a bug,” he says, “but if you look at it just right,
it looks like a far-away plane.”
I finally see the bright shape darting erratically,
high overhead the commotion below.
“I wonder what kind of bug it is,” I say.
My son says, “I think it is a silky white moth.”
He runs back onto the field
as his coach calls him once again
into the huddle.
My son is the one who thinks white moths are silky.
My son is the one staring into the night sky…
…looking for stars.