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We stand amid the old trackswith tar baking up from the tiesgravel grinding under our shoesand tall grass rustling against our knees.I hoist the 7Up bottleloaded with the hissingBlack Cat heavenward.These are the glorious seconds -- the gray fuze hisses orange,flaking off pieces like a snake’s discarded skin, heat singes my hand,as the rocket takes on a mighty life of its ownits tiny red body tears freethe muddy smoke swirls from the green glassleaving just a taste of sulfur on the breeze.Pleased as a boy can be,I reach for the next candidate.Granny, standing over me,shields her eyes from the sun,and watches the tiny rockettwirl upand upand upand pop --With the punk clenched between my teethI have another hoistedby the time the tiny red bodylands in the grass next to us.
“Don’t you ever enjoy their flight?” 
 
This has never occurred to me.So we watch the next rocketclimbabove rooftopstwisting and turning,above highline wiresleaving a faint gray vapor trailabove the treesits red body ascendingup to where the water towerreachesthen pop --
“I wonder what it looks like from the rocket’s point of view.” 
In those few seconds - I see the neighborhood and town differently.I seethe immense oaks towering,the tall pines pointing our roof and chimneythe flat, gravel covered roof of the high schoolthe blinding tin dome of the gymnasiumyards sectioned into neighborhoodsblocks neatly squared off bystreets and alleys.a tiny boy with his grandmotherhands over eyes peering upgrowing smaller.
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