Swing Set

the sun was fixed in the sky like a fugitive in an orange jumpsuit radiating anger. the evergreen forest was shedding to carpet the steeled winter earth. pinecones and needles in a mosaic of brown and green. the swing set sat neglected chains rusted, slack like abandoned moorings. it creaked under the stress of your weight, unsure of itself. its chains, yawning after years of hibernation, start to sway, back and forth, picking up speed and confidence. In a flash you’re off the swing, gliding through thick, wet air to land on your hands and knees in the mulch. The intractable wood opens the soft flesh of your palms. The strawberry red blood glistens in the late Sunday light. A dog barks indifferently at the sun as it sheds its cumbersome bonds and falls back into the earth.