The Zen of kite flying. No strings attached. Air is a fluid bearing weight far greater than nothing. The tail is a rudder through life. Wing is the thing. No wing no kite. Wing is the point, has the point, points the way. Yellow–feet, eyes, the outer limits of the being, seeing, treeing, watching, clutching.
We were almost gone from Grizzly when the two white spots were spotted, in a tree skeleton along the road. There they each clung to a branch, facing into the gusty wind. Occasional gusts puffed out feathers, upset the birds’ delicate balance, bent the tail feathers, pushed up a momentary crest on a head. For an hour we watched. For brief aerial forays there was some flight, then there would be the hanging in air, the suspension (physical and apprehensive, both), flight from high speed arcs to stillness and motion stopping. As we finally pulled ourselves away, the kites had returned to perches very close to where they’d been when we first intruded. Two kites, the dead tree, the dried tules, miles of sun and wind, the unseen scurrying of the voles, the kites’ own vole-luminous appetite, the elegant black and white and gray shapes that no couturier will ever match.
Towheeblog 
Exquisite photos and commentary, too. Best, Babsje
By: babsje on October 6, 2021
at 8:41 am
Kites are a favorite of mine and your description is excellent.
By: Kathleen A Patterson on October 6, 2021
at 9:33 am