After supper, my brothers and I run outside into the backyard. The air moves sluggishly as we sit in the dark shadow of the house drawing pictures in the dust. A ripe summer sun slips behind the trees and we make a mad dash for the swings as the first cool breeze brushes our hair. Creaks of objection exhale from the swing-set as we swing higher and higher. We let go and seem to fly before landing with a thud on packed dirt.
In the clear sky the stars peep out and the moon displays its Cheshire grin. We begin to swing slower and slower, talking of the world and spinning the stories of our future. The crickets leisurely join the stars in song. It soon fills the air. My father comes out of the house to listen. "Time to come in!" His voice cuts through the twilight. Complaining, we trudge inside to the reality of bedtime.
