8.15

And we find ourselves at the butt end of another summer's day, waiting on the wind to pick up and carry aloft the kites we built, painstakingly, almost achingly, cramped and clutching at the curling paper, poised on the very limit of human patience as the glue dried and the string waited, watching the trees outside whip wildly in a terrible bluster, only to die the moment the glue passed from passable to passing-good, the leaves still, the grass still, the day still dying in a glow of cloying glory in a western sky that serves only to remind us that the wind goes down when the sun goes down.

Welcome back.