On Saturdays if the sun gets up on the bright side of the bed and the wind sleeps in a little
people at the protest in the park blow bubbles—well, really they conjure them into existence
with a pair of magic wands, lifting a thin sheet of soapy water up into a friendly breeze
that puffs it into shapes— cylinders waving like windsocks on a runway or banners towed
by propellers of air where all our best messages are written in sunlight. Still others are
little, round cartoon captions drifting over the crowd, miming the story of the day: our spirits
wriggle free from the grasp of authority, we fill our glasses with effervescence and toast
the end of a dark age. No one feels deflated when the bubbles burst with a sudden splash
of iridescence like fireworks at noon. They’re just showing us how to celebrate a community
of belief while they plant a kiss on the cheek of the future, coaxing it back into a smile.