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.