The children heaved out the rusty wagon,
Far too small to be ridden in and
Speckled with the remnants of its bright red paint
It was dragged through dying grass
Revealing flaky soil scorched by the sun

In their untamed yard
Oak leaves drifted down from time to time
An aroma of fresh cut grass hung in the air
Autumn was impatient this year
The children reached the top of the hill and paused,

Gazing in fear and wonder

One of them mounts the wagon,
Treating it like a valiant steed
The other stands by shifting with anxiety
He wears a navy blue t-shirt and red gym shorts
“W-watch out for the big tree,” the


Blue-shirted one stammers
The child in the wagon is unfazed
He is eight years old, not two after all
“Come on! Push me already,” the wagon driver commands
With a mighty push the wagon creaks forward
And plummets down the hill, straight into the large Evergreen
The fearless boy in the wagon bursts out crying
Not so different than a two year old