A boy blows bubbles in his front yard.
Confined to the square plot of pasture,
He experiences nature the only way he can,
Letting his bare toes mingle with the earth.
His bubbles soar as the wand drips:
Slippery, shining facets of unnamed colors form.
Soft breath creates a living globe of possibility,
Defying the laws that the boy hates to obey,
He watches in wonder.
For this he created.

A sniffing hound at his side,
A man wades through stalks of twisting green.
Encircling him and embracing him as one of their own,
He pushes them aside and crouches low.
For a dove he spots, a peace-bird flying high overhead
Wings which beat gravity upon a body made of cloud,
Captivate this man of sport.
Pointing his barrel towards the heavens,
He watches in silence.
For this is his moment.

Pop!
The boy sniffles for his bubble is no more.