folk festival in poetry

children running in the field like
those little toy cars that smash into walls
then bounce back in some randomized trajectory
children running in the field like late-night moths
their guidance systems fried by
porch-light illumination
spinning frenzied circles until
they drop or the lights go out
watch any one of them running
you’ll never know which direction they’re going next
neither will they
they never do until the moment when they pivot
that’s what being a child is all about, I guess
having it half-right at the concert
knowing they should scream real loud
but only doing it at random
someday they’ll learn to only scream
whenever a song is clearly at its end
that’s what being an adult is all about, I guess