Solitude (Press)

The wind rustling the limbs on the

bent, leafless trees

pushes the swing I sit on gently

as my feet trail lightly through

the loose, powdery snow.

It's a cold wind,

forcing me to unclamp my frozen hands from

the slightly rusted metal chains

and wrap them tightly around myself,

keeping the biting wind from sneaking

into my jacket through the broken zipper.

I hear flocks of geese calling overhead as they fly,

traveling northeast towards the snow-covered

grassy fields stuck haphazardly between

the housing developments spreading rapidly

like some contagious, yet fatal, disease.

The swing next to me rocks emptily

as the wind continues to blow-

driving tiny, pale flakes off of neighboring

rooftops and causing the old, worn out

wooden playground equipment to creak loudly,

drowning out the calls of the geese.

My fingers, red and numb from the

icy metal have begun to thaw inside

my pockets, occasionally braving the

wind to brush stray brown hairs

away from my face.

The wind begins to blow even more fiercely,

causing the swings to rattle sharply

as I jump off into the soft, white powder.

It crunches under my feet as I walk hurridly

home, trying to escape the increasingly frigid air.