It

The wind blows between follicles of fresh-brushed
Locks of golden dark.
The wind,
Apparently dead-set on ruining good hair days,
Claims its next victim:
A little toy boat floats among the puddles
And I follow.
Where could this boat lead?
I glance above to the red crescent
Dancing in the wind.
Its okay, the string stays firmly in hand.
The boat drifts quicker
And I follow
To a drain pipe etched into the sidewalk.
The boat falls into an all-consuming blackness,
Which isn't limited to paper boats.
(The all-consuming wind isn't limited to red balloons.)
Little Boat falls from view.
Be careful, it's a circus down there.
“Hiya Georgie.”