The Acrobat

 

The tiny footprints trailing

in the dust on the windowsill

next to his bed give overt clues

he has been there pirouetting

on his toes, flipping his little

body from side to side in front

of the double pane windows

looking out over the mossy courtyard. 

 

I never know where he is

going to show up next—in a

handstand on top of the back

of the couch in the Great Room or cartwheeling off the Lazy Boy

recliner, landing a few feet past

“Hershey,” our Chocolate Labrador,

who knows better than to snuggle

in the middle of the floor

for fear of being cannonballed.

 

Some days our four year old

is a gymnast, other days a trapeze

artist, but most days he is just

a little boy chocked full of

uncensored imagination. My

last sighting of him was in the

den—his limber legs eyeing the credenza.