This morning while stretching on what I like to call an Olmstead/Vaux Bridge (Fredrick Law Olmstead and Calvert Vaux were the creators of Central Park), I noticed a kid, no more than 6, swinging from a low tree branch.
It more than made me smile wishing I had a camera.
He was in jeans and a bright green shirt happily dangling, his little sneaks not touching the ground. I could hear his mother yelling something to him…probably to be careful, or to stop harassing that tree…an admonishment appropriately maternal.
It also got me to pay heed to the view I have every morning. Dog Hill sloping before me as a dozen or more four-legged inhabitants run relays across its still verdant lawn.
Owners in quorums coffee cups in hand, discussing the events of the coming day.
Nature herself is pretty impressive since she’s still flush with color and bloom. I sigh when I think, any minute the trees will be bare, the grass a dull brown.
I’m just not ready for winter hoping an Indian Summer will show up to prolong putting away my shorts.
The kid on the flying sycamore is still jumping up to catch that branch after taking a good long breather. His arms may have gotten tired, or he just waited for his mom to look the other way.
To be a kid again just for a morning, would do us all a great deal of good.
How do I know?
You should have heard that little boy giggle. Made me want to find my own bough to happily swing from.