Morning field: grass stands straight.
A rabbit erupts into air—
midair, it kinks into a question mark;
hind legs flick dew into a white arc;
it laughs without sound.
The ground forgives with a soft thud.
Dune wind, 1903. Two bicycle makers
stretch muslin, true spruce spars,
teach a wing to hesitate and ask.
A cradle rocks the fabric into warp;
a prop bites the cold;
seconds assemble into lift.
Near a stall, the frame shivers.
The air keeps both traces—
dew’s arc and a canvas wake—like salt on glass.
Between them, wonder keeps time.
Each kick returns to clover:
the grammar of grass.
Each landing rehearses departure:
the syntax of spars and wire.
Meanwhile the rabbit warms, a question folded.
Meanwhile the Flyer waits on its skids,
the question opening along its seam.
Both are small; both ask with their whole motion.
For an instant, the sky answers—wonder.