I curl my cold fingersAround the yellow FrisbeeCoil my arm backDip it low, flex my wrist,Release.It sails smoothly through the airFloats gently above my father’s headAnd thenThe wind carries it slowlyInto his waiting handsHe smiles and tosses itBack into the windI am preparedMy arms are open, readyAs his wereTo grasp it, to hold it in my clutchesBut insteadThe wind takes it,Swoops it, low and highSuddenlyI am snatching air,And the Frisbee landsSoftly in the grass,Wet with mudI pick it upBend low,Step forward,Let go.Dad leapsWith a ballerina’s graceHis hands claspAround its plastic yellow bodyOur eyes lockHe nods, I nod,A mental understandingThen it’s whizzing through the airA bright, lemon-colored streak against the violet sunset.I push off the groundMy feet lift from the grassI reach for the sky,Palm openInstinctivelyMy hands snap shutLike the pincers of a crab on the beachAnd suddenly it is thereI am holding itThud.My sneakers meet the groundAnd I am thrusting it into the airA triumphHe smilesI smileThe yellow diskIs in my handWe smileWe nodGo homeNow we are done here.