kites ovenbird This point of land that juts into the straight is home to winds perfect for kite flying. On this particular summer morning the sky is adorned with nylon anemones with rainbow tails waving in the atmospheric current. I stop for a moment, allow the kite tails to brush through my tangled memories until one comes loose. When I was young my parents would drive us to Point_Pelee. We would journey out to the boardwalk to see the red-winged blackbirds, then have peanut butter and honey sandwiches on white Wonder Bread for lunch. In the afternoon we would stand on a narrow strip of sand assaulted by the turbulent waters of Lake Erie and fly kites. Kite flying inverts the world. Suddenly you are a small sailing ship dropping an anchor into the sky. I could feel the power of racing air currents pulling on my small body. I loved that–the ferocious power of it. It made me feel alive. As my brother and I ran along the beach my parents would remind us to be careful. We knew that if we fell in we could be swept_away. Erie had hands in the form of an undertow with no_mercy. It could grab you and make your lungs a lake. When my kite dropped from the sky into the foam I thought it was lost forever. My father managed to haul it back to shore, fighting it as if landing a sturgeon. That stalagmite of land forming the southernmost extent of Canada was one of those thin places, unleashing the wild, unpredictable will of water and air. I was a speck upon the sand, letting out string from the reel of my ribcage, watching a piece of myself become sky, laughing_instead_of_drowning. 250702 what's it to you? who go blather from