The Kite

One breezy afternoon, a kite was soaring high in the sky, spinning and twirling like it owned the air. “Oh, yes! Look at me!” it called out. “I’m a masterpiece in motion! The clouds cheer for me, the wind carries me like I’m royalty. I’m practically sky royalty.”

Down below, a little moth was lazily fluttering between flowers, minding its own business. It heard the kite’s bragging and squinted up at it. “Who’s making all that racket? I was in the middle of appreciating this daisy.”

The kite spotted the moth and chuckled. “Oh, it’s you. Wow, you’re... tiny. That’s flying? Looks more like you’re trying to survive a sneeze. Bet you wish you could be me, soaring up here in the big leagues.”

The moth fluttered a bit closer, rolling its tiny eyes. “Jealous of you? Hah! You’ve got a string tied to you! Someone’s yanking you around like a yo-yo. That’s not freedom—that’s... kite prison.”

The kite wobbled in surprise. “Excuse me? Prison? I’m a star! I’m the king of the sky!”

“King? Please.” The moth giggled, resting on a dandelion. “You’re a kite on a leash. You can’t even decide where you go. You’re like... a fancy dog with a human holding the other end.”

The kite huffed, swaying in the wind. “Fancy dog? No, no, no. I’m a free spirit. I fly high, higher than you’ll ever go! What do you know about being up here with the clouds?”

The moth shrugged its tiny wings. “Maybe I don’t fly as high as you, but at least I can go wherever I want. Left, right, up, down—I’m my own boss. You’re stuck spinning in circles. You’re basically an airborne merry-go-round.”

The kite’s confidence started to droop, like its string had gotten tangled. “Well, I could fly free if I wanted to. I just... like having a string. It’s, uh, part of my design. Very... practical.”

“Sure,” the moth said with a wink. “Practical. And I suppose twirling in one spot is ‘performance art,’ right? Well, enjoy your ‘freedom.’ Me? I’m off to explore the valley. I hear there’s a whole patch of clover waiting to be admired.”

With that, the moth fluttered off, zipping here and there, wherever it pleased. Meanwhile, the kite spun in place, its string tugging it back and forth. “Performance art is cool,” it mumbled to itself, though it couldn’t help but wonder what real freedom might feel like.

A kite soared high in skies of blue,
It danced and spun, a lovely view.
Below, a moth flew near the ground,
Its tiny wings made soft, faint sound.

The kite looked down and gave a call,
“Oh, little moth, you’re far too small!
While I glide high and touch the sky,
You barely even seem to fly!”

The moth replied with wings so light,
“Your height’s no sign of freedom’s flight.
You soar, it’s true, but on a string—
Someone decides your everything.”

The kite went still, then asked, “But why?
Is flying low a better sky?”
The moth just smiled and softly said,
“I choose each path where I am led.”

“You twist and turn where hands command,
But I can wander every land.
Though I’m not high, I’m truly free,
And that means more than heights to me.”

The kite grew quiet, spinning round,
Its string pulled tight back toward the ground.
The moth then fluttered far and wide,
Exploring hills and fields with pride.

And so the kite kept looping there,
While the moth danced through open air.
For freedom isn’t always height,
It’s choosing where to spread your light.