Small boy, running toward me by the gentle waves' edge.
Soon our opposite paths will gift a welcome passing;
I am running, jogging, barefoot too
but your 4? 5? years are more buoyant than mine.

Benevolent morning sun lights your blond hair flying
but you glow
with more than children's happiness,
more than that burst of an uncontainable sprint
that all babies with new feet gleefully rev-up like a brand new motorcycle.

Your running/flying sprint surprisingly does not slow.
You must be tapping into the other side,
from where you so recently arrived;
remembering your weightless spirit.

You recognize this paradise, don't you?
waves sent from past the horizon by the warm Pacific,
benign intention spilling out of the water, washing out onto golden sand,
revealing small frothy iridescent wings as peace takes flight,
dispersing into island breezes.

You are finally here,
releasing the silver thread behind,
between you and the tourist father with a camera.
Dad is dutifully following, jogging half-effort because he understands.
Like raising a baby wild mustang who must run-out, this is not chase.

When passing, I impulsively u-turn to run at your side,
wanting to share this contagious happiness.
I tilt my head, ask a playful wanna race?,
But I am already running to keep up with your bright half-sized person
miniature long strides in perfect form.

You look up over at me, I glimpse in your smiling eyes
your wise smile says you don't need boyish competition to fly like this.
I slow, and watch the back of this little boy still sprinting.
Your father runs by my shoulder, feet heavy in sand;
he shares the smile of a marathon.