Swinging forward, toes brush the ground and the stomach sinks into the spine. Leaning back and a legs fly up and up, toes pointed to the sky. Gripping the rusty chain of the swing, holding for one moment. One still and quite moment, upside down moment.  A moment so small that there is only time to feel a fly-away hair brush the cheek as it continues in its upward flight. Then back down again, manufactured wind stinging the cheeks apple-red with the newfound bite in the air. Hand growing cold on the chain, and then numb. Toes brush the ground again, wet earth smells kicked up for a second. Swinging backward see the ground below, speckled with colored leaves on the green grass.

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