While visiting a small kite store on the Coast recently, I saw something that I thought might quench my lifelong desire to see a snowy owl in flight.

The store sold kites of all kinds. They had stunt kites, box kites, kites that bore the likeness of movie stars and kites shaped like superheroes. There were some that glittered; some were made of nylon and metal, some of wood and glass. There were frightening kites with the heads of dragons, and there were kites with butterflies and rainbows that made me feel peaceful and easy in a very special way.

But in this kite menagerie, the one that caught my eye was a solitary, modest kite that was shaped like a snowy owl. I was instantly attracted to this thing of wonder. It seemed so sure of itself, so knowledgeable, stoic, silent, and mysterious. Best of all, its package boasted its "realistic flapping action". I simply had to have it.

I became exited at the prospect of having opportunity to spend the afternoon with a lifelike reproduction of a carnivorous bird of prey. I looked forward to watching it flap in the wind, stalking its prey, hovering above me with its ferocious claws.

Perhaps this was too much to hope for. I knew, of course that the owl wasn't real, but who needs real when you have realistic flapping?

So I found a windy place, and I unsheathed the kite from its plastic sock. The hard wind at my back almost blew away all of the little tiny pieces of plastic that were in the bag with the kite, but I didn't let that stop me. I picked the little plastic pieces out of the rocks with delicate precision. Using a good deal of masking tape, my imagination, and cryptic instructions printed only in French, I was finally able to assemble the kite.

Once it was ready, the kite bore an uncanny resemblance not to a majestic snowy owl, but rather to a cheap piece of plastic with white fangs.

I almost laughed at the ridiculous thing, but instead, I set my reservations aside. I knew that if I could get that bird in the sky, his big white fangs would scare the beaks off of all the other birds in the sky. The wind was ripping through the gorge that day like a mother's fury, and this bird wanted to fly.

I cast the beast into the howling wind; hungrily it caught the air and flapped two or three triumphant times before folding upon itself and collapsing in a barely audible snap. The crumpled mass writhed at the end of its leash for only a moment before it broke free, tumbling in the air like plastic trash in a wind tunnel.

No rope or twine can hold the sprit of a snowy owl! I watched as it rode the wind, hurling faster and faster down the road to freedom until it finally weakened. All of that time in the darkened corner of the kite store had softened its muscles, but only strengthened its resolve. I saw it break its stride, and with a defiant howl it plunged into the cold and icy water, never to return.

Wind is the true home of the snowy owl, and never shall the two be parted.