Listen to the Swings Sing

A reprieve from winter.
The afternoon air is warmer than my heated house.
We shed coats, jackets, and sweaters in a pile and bare our arms.
I notice CJ's elbows are dimpled.

Race games in the park, one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand.
"Do I scare you?" my boy calls as he climbs to the highest point (not meant to be climbed) of the playground equipment.
We swing. Our legs stretch with pumping.
The chains creak their rhythmic song. Back and forth, back and forth.
I lean back and listen to the swings sing.

We open the metal gate that seems to sigh.
We walk up the brown hill leaving the playground behind.
The grass is like straw that pokes our ankles.
We avoid the patches of snow that will surely melt.
Once at the top, we turn our faces to the sun like spring flowers.
Then CJ decides to roll down the hill, and thinking of the sogginess, I almost stop her.
But she laughs and her brother and sister join her.

And as I watch them tumble on the winter grass,
their laughter mingles with the soft wind that carries the swing's distant song,
And the music is lovely to my ears.