As he stands on a rock, surrounded by a dusty plane, kite, like a wilted daisy flopped to his side, he sticks his finger out to the sky and hopes for the wind.
To the west he sees kids and adults running. Running is a generous verb - for by this point they're more limping. Confusing their own motion with a sign that the wind is behind them. Hopelessly throwing their kites to the sky, only to watch them come fluttering down when they run out of breath.
To the east he sees evidence of the wind. Like a mirage the grass bends slightly, giving way to small gusts. But he was told to stand there -for on that rock the kite would fly.
Some people, seeing the wind to the east try to chase it - but being so tired out from creating wind, their pace isn't fast enough and they make it to the east only to feel nothing but the dry, hot, static air.
He stands on that rock, feeling slightly less confident that anything will happen. But with the insight of other's follies, the case to move on is not too compelling.
He stands on the rock, surrounded by a dusty plane, kite like a wilted daisy flopped to his side - confused, anxious, patience forced only by knowledge.