I was swinging ever higher on the swing mounted on a sturdy branch of the immeasurably ancient oak. And then I was on the ground, a few fingers mangled and awaiting the trip to the emergency room. Sitting there, the wonder was that I had no memory of slipping from the seat, of my fingers challenging the swing’s suspension, of any wound at all. No knowledge of landing upright or prone and then rising to sit. I knew then I would swing again, perhaps in this very tree. To my young mind, I could outpace physics. I could enviably soar.
Ken Poyner has four flash and four poetry collections out there. He watches his world-class powerlifting wife at meets, and once worked wrangling computers. Find Ken at www.kpoyner.com, www.barkingmoosepress.com, on Facebook at ken.poyner.9, and on Twitter @KenPoyner2.