for C, a recording

Do you remember when we were walking

and we saw the brimming field

alive with earthbound geese?

You grabbed my phone and

showed me how to work the camera,

push the button to record,

and I held up my screen, 

my finger poised

while you drew your breath,

aimed yourself.

"Now!" you whispered,

and ran,

your arms outstretched,

that hunting cap that you wear 

with the ear flaps

which were airborne.

Just at the edge

your voice burst out like buckshot

and a thousand pairs of wings erupted 

in the sky.

You stood there fireworked, 

upturned,

your hand on that cap,

those ear flaps, 

folded back like arrow tips

ready to launch.

The birds, a circus of sound,

trapezed above you, 

wheeling,

until finally they gathered 

their dignity, those tattered skirts,

and wove north to

boy-less fields,

and you came back laughing

with your face a chorus

of grin and light

and took the phone from my hand.

But the screen was 

black, unseeing.

All that time I had stood there

breathless,

your quicksilver joy in

my sights,

my finger

unaware,

the memory of you running

folding itself

into my head.