Well Sprung

In my seventh year I felt the urge
to capture the rustic acrobat.
I caught him in gentle grasses near the well.
He waited, cupped in my hands.

Antennae gathered signals from distant worlds,
cold eyes measured the texture of my skin,
armor glittered in the shadows of my fingers,
unanchored tent-poles twitched.

One like him leapt
from the open well
into the tall grass.

I held out my hand
straight as a diving board.  He sprang
into a green arc. A parabolic escape,

cool to things left behind:
the bonfire in my chest,
a salty koan,
the memory of a trophy
flying from my hand.