A handful of children, twice their size with coats and scarves and hats that hide their little ears, romp into the snow. It reaches their knees and pours into their boots. But they don’t mind. They welcome the flakes. They scoop billions of them off the ground and onto their tongues.
The children approach the looming poles which hold up six swings in a row. They brush the dusting of snow off the seats, but they don’t sit. They line up at one end solemnly. One child, taller than the rest, barks the rules. Their voices climb over one another to correct him until they’re all satisfied. The rules will change with every unfair out anyway.
The taller child recruits another to step out of line. They start the swings going. Back and forth, back and forth. Unpredictable. They push them higher. Then they scurry back into the line of coats.
The child who has shoved his way to the front of the line takes off with the swish of nylon, to begin the tournament. He dashes down the row of pendulum swings, dodging them until he’s reached the other end. The next child follows, a little slower. They giggle with every close call, relishing the danger they’re in. A swing catches the last child in line, but the rest pretend not to notice.
Soon their mercy turns boring, though, and the rules become stricter. You have to keep running—you can’t stop even if a swing is about to collide with your path. One child slips on the ice. Out. Another’s mitten brushes against a metal chain. Out. Those called out are made to push the swings higher while their peers keep running.
The last child standing is allowed to revel in his victory for the length of a foggy breath escaping his mouth, before the others run back into line and jostle for a spot.
The swings are pushed higher, and the game begins again.