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worn, barely holding,
the string stretches
in her hands.
It's performance uncanny
in this uneasy sky.
Being thoroughly wet,
the silk no longer
snaps in the wind.
She can feel it
in the thread,
the stretch
returning less,
unsure
if it is,
or if her fingers
are weaker.
The kite among clouds,
swallowed by distance;
built for less than this.
Possibility of lighting.
The wind pelts the string
and bailiffs
the fins of the kite
away from her.
The line fraying
so evenly,
across the length of it,
that the wear
is imperceptible.
Threatening her grasp,
is not the numbness
of her fingers,
but the construct;
now high above,
of kite and string.