On the jungle gym.

Don’t let go of one bar until you’ve grasped another firmly.

Run for the field.

An ovular track of uneven black gravel surrounded by sparse, drying grass and polka dot wild flowers.

Torn skin.

Only scrapes, no gashes.

Palms ruddied and pocked by tiny pebbles after an awkward landing.

Too numb to feel the smarting.

Back at the playground ahead.

Souls of children grown linger on the slides and swing sets.

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