Sometimes I see a black-shouldered kite
by the cliffs near the river
around sunset
when the wind whips up,
blowing in from the east.
He rides it as it comes up,
hovering perfectly still
in all that movement,
then drops down into it,
feet first,
for a mouse or two.

I have also seen him there once
when the wind came in from the west.

But on many evenings,
seabreeze in from the southwest,
he is over by the beach, where the wind rises
over the dunes and ridge before the 
train line, or maybe on the other
side of the line
where it rises up again.

The kite
formed by the wind,
the wind given form,
and an instrument of it.