paper cranes

so he thought he could do anything.

He folded a paper crane once.
Fold over, tuck under, fold, fold fold

fold

in foiled paper that fractured bits of sunlight and pierced sight in just the right way

or patterned scraps of sinewy cherry blossom trees, delicate droplet petals

or just crinkled bits picked from the corners of a folder or desk or backpack.

And each time he folded one

carefully

creased with the side of his chewed-down thumbnail

measured the edges with one eye squinting shut 

he felt a blooming heat in the center of his chest

a burgeoning pride in the pit of his stomach, like

He can do something right. 

He can do something well.

But there are thousands more

(millions)

who can do that in their sleep

whose fingers dance like spindly water cranes 

whose movements rapid rush so

no sound is made.

They could grind him with the tip of a tapered index finger into finely milled sand–

He thought he could do anything.

He thought he could do anything

he could do anything

anything

any