For The Benefit Of A Lone Kite

The heart is rust,
it beats dust into the sky;
red on the horizon.
Liquid clouds build
grey-green contrasts
against this vast.
A lone kite
whistles in flight,
barely moving his wings.
In his blood he feels
the coming storm;
long has he known of things
we, the lately usurpers,
wonder at and guess
(more often incorrect
than with any real success).
He looks down
and sees so much more
than I, from my seat
on a passing jet.
And when the heart beating
in my chest slows and ceases,
his children will still know more
than mine could ever
hope to learn.