Squirrel and Rabbit Go Fly a Kite

By Peter Bowden


The sky was a wide mirror, brushed with clouds that moved like whispered thoughts. Squirrel and Rabbit stood in the tall grass, the kite between them a bright patchwork of hopes and old cloth. Rabbit, in his blue coat, insisted the tail be long, trailing like a comet’s fire. Squirrel disagreed. “Too much drag,” she muttered, but Rabbit’s eyes were filled with sky-dreams, and the ribbon fluttered like a spell in the breeze.

They launched it together, breath held, paws trembling. The kite wobbled, dipped, then caught a whisper of wind and soared. Rabbit clapped; Squirrel beamed. But soon the string was a battleground—who held it longer, who steered better, who deserved more sky. They tussled, gentle as spring rain, paws pulling, hearts laughing, until the kite, forgotten in the bickering, danced out of control and nearly drowned itself in the cattail pond.

With a gasp and a rush, they rescued it, their coats damp, eyes bright. Rabbit re-tied the tail—longer this time, in secret rebellion—and Squirrel let it pass. They stood close, shoulder to shoulder, and released it again. The kite leapt, caught a strong wind, and sang high above them. Below, two friends watched, tethered by string, by argument, by love.


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