Tiny Warriors: for my son

My son plays with his
nerf pirate swords
and a toy gun bigger than
his legs that swoops and whoops
and zaps invisible aliens.

He stands in his fort and watches
out for the hordes of dangerous
---somethings.
Swings on his belly, arms extended--
shoots his laser gun into the sky.

At almost four, he still barely talks, but
this need, this
love, is built in.
Things with triggers.
Sharp edges.
Good vantage points.
Apparently.

Then he sits in his little blue
lawn chair and says he's
"a good boy."
Watches birds. Hears the music
of the universe
(so much better than I do).

Forget snips and snails.
Little boys are made of
gunpowder and muddy kisses.