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Standing atop the high dive
the boy does not notice
the brilliant cumulus or the airplane
moving slow across the sky.
Arms outstretched to steady himself
he feels a thrill at this height,
a danger in the bounce from his weight on the board.
He has no doubt that he will dive. The pull
is too strong. Late August, the park is not crowded,
just the usual families settled to their places around the pool.
The boy ignores their voices blending with a familiar
song from the lifeguard radio.
Rushing to the deep end this morning
he neglected to rescue the frogs
and crickets trapped in the baby pool.
A field beyond the cut grass boundary
holds the green corduroy of milkweed pods
stuffed to bursting with seeds.
The boy will gather them later, touching the sap
that bleeds poison from the break.
He inches his way to the very edge of the board.
He can almost feel his forehead smack
the surface, the relief in submerging
then rising through water. The cumulus
above him floats on the blue.
Released, he dives toward it.