Sundance Kid
THE SUNDANCE KID
Lively bursts of sudden air arise out of my sighs of rushed venom-
-out pops my eyes.
I can't believe my sight--I see my kid in Sundance dance,
all eager to please and pump.
The courage gives the love, it lives, it's alive
it's spreads out of his body, only five.
While he's flying off the ground I think to myself, he's got to be kidding around.
What's up is love and freedom and dancing in the sun.
My son lit, light bright and orange yellow streaks coming out of his being.
He's just being a kid, right?
He kicks up his small, brown stamped leather boots,
with little blue jean jeans and his red bandana shirt.
His hat on his head is cowboy suede and he yelps,
"I am the Sundance Kid, and rain drops keep falling on my head", as he falls into
the muddy dirt.
I swirl and twirl, my brain rambling, and blankly stare in strange glaring curiosity.
"How does he know who the Sundance Kid is?" "How does he know Raindrops
Keep Falling On My Head?"
And just as I am pondering the mysteries of a child's consciousness, a bicycle
built for two rides by and the rain begins to pour in front of my panicked,
frightened astonished adult face. My child begins to sing "Raindrops Keep
Falling on My Head" and I hear the sound of music.
Marla Stone
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