Sky waits, flat as a screen.
A rabbit detonates into it—
a pulse of white fur, instant and unpaid.
Gravity forgives the debt
before the heartbeat even fades.
Binky: encrypted elation,
or terror bent into laughter;
the air keeps both traces
like salt on skin.
Two brothers read the scorch,
engineer a wing’s hesitation,
weld seconds into lift,
call it control,
feel rib-bones rattle at the edge of stall.
Twelve beats grow to fifty-nine;
fifty-nine rehearses continents.
Each landing begets departure
in the syntax of rivets.
Meanwhile the rabbit reloads—
warm beneath grass, question folded.
Its next unscheduled spark
teaches the sky anew:
wonder is a muscle,
not a motor,
aching when unused.
Ask, and you are airborne.
Understand, and you must stay aloft.