by
Bill West
Yuki hears the faint drone above the singing of cicadas. She sees the mirrored sun flash from a
toy-tiny plane up high. Children outside school look up. The breeze carries scent of camphor trees
from the Kokutaiji Temple grounds.
From the plane something black falls. White petals bloom and fill. The plane turns away sharply,
its drone now high-pitched and eager.
She watches the parachute and remembers flying kites with her brother. In her head she hears
the nursery rhyme,
Falling, falling is the kite.
Run and run to keep it right.
How she would love to fly a kite. She would paint it, a crane flying over waves. Children would
watch her run and run, her kite would soar above them all. Everyone would admire its colour and
beauty, and ignore that pale imposter.
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