I know a kite maker who knits
kites from numbers. The month or the day, he hardly remembers. The kites
that he builds do not really fly, but carve criss-cross symbols across the sky.
The kids in the village gaze all day long, at beautiful patterns that never
go wrong. It's tastefully intricate and mildly bold, footnoted by curious
scripts centuries old.
When it gets dark, his marvels fade out. The kite maker packs up for another
route. Filling his wake, we shout "one more kite!", but he dons his cloak
and slips out of sight.