From the ledge with our dogs, we watched
someone’s small boy fling his body
toward the gray blue chop of Finch’s Sound.
We watched him dart and twirl
across grass already winter-worn, its green fading out,
his arms were wide open, like hallelujah
-not to God, not in a church-
but to this moment and to the next,
to some expectation.
No measured steps
words said and not said,
deeds done, undone, or not done
would hollow out his days.
He seemed so sure of joy
I stopped, wondering at his certainty
but the dogs pulled, whined softly,
and it seemed that, maybe, we should still run
at what we love.
