Reflections of Pyrtle Elementary Park

A cool breeze greets me as I make my way out of the parking lot. The cold of winter seems undecided about whether it is going or staying. The frosted grass crunches beneath my feet, as I create a recognizable trail through the field. A wooden sign post cordially welcomes me to Pyrtle Elementary Park. It appears I am the only one here, save for the two children in heavy Denver Broncos coats playing around carelessly on the jungle gym at the center of the playground. I reach the sidewalk, and follow the concrete path to a seemingly brand new bench, which sits directly across from the playground: my nest of observation.
The frigid bench sends an unsettling chill up my spine. Gradually, my back grows accustomed to the brisk sensation this bench has become due to Mother Nature. It is a windy day, wind chill much lower than the actual temperature. My attention is drawn to the steam created by my every exhale. The children, about a quarter of a football field away from me, seem graciously immune to the unforgiving, wintry atmosphere surrounding them as they struggle across the lime green, zig-zagging monkey bars. Their laughter resounds across the peacefully vacant park. The world seems to be on mute, and the enduring laughter becomes like white noise.
My nostrils become clogged due to the freezing air. I focus on the kids at play on the monkey bars. They seem oblivious to the idea of repercussions, as they dangle and hop from bar to bar. I once injured my arm through my recklessness on a playground. I didn't think I was able to get hurt, I was convinced that I was some type of superhero, immune to any and all supposed dangers of the outside world. As children, we initially believe we are invincible, that we possess an immunity to the unknown dangers of the world. With such a belief, we could care less of the dangers of certain actions, and it's not until it's too late that we realize we aren't superheros. Sometimes, we have to experience something to fully understand our motives. The children continue to courageously swing across the monkey bars, clambering about and laughing joyously. I enviously observe their unfailing immunity against the cold. I pray they are more intelligent than my former self, and I pray that they muster as much caution as they possibly can.
A strong breeze whistles past my face, forcing me to close my eyes until the terrible rush extinguishes. The gray sky seems to be covered with one humongous cloud, and I curse the sun for not making a surprise appearance. There is a large climbing tree, an oak tree, roughly forty feet from the jungle gym, next to the kiddie swings. The children have grown indifferent toward the jungle gym, and have commenced climbing the tree. After several moments the skinnier of the two children reaches a high branch, nearly three quarters of the way up the tree. The other boy is still struggling to reach the second branch, huffing and puffing, staring up in dismay at his buddy. The skinny boy taunts the other one for his inability to ascend quickly.
An elderly gentleman has entered the park, wearing a leather coat and a fedora, walking his chocolate lab by the fences bordering the playground. He, too, seems immune to the unforgiving weather, as he and his pet make their way across the opposite end of the park. I can hear the crunch of his feet on the frosty grass echo across the park. His lackadaisical stride implies he is in no hurry, not a care in the world. His panting dog seems to be in more of a rush than he. A man immune to weather and the hustle and bustle of the world. I am jealous.
A portly woman with thick black framed glasses is making her way toward the children in the tree. She's calling out one of them in specific, demanding an explanation for why he is climbing a "dangerous tree". She mumbles something about him falling out and breaking his neck. The child closest o the bottom of the tree begins descending, hops down to the ground and waves goodbye to his buddy. The woman (his mother I'm assuming, although she looks like she could be his grandmother) strictly instructs him to hurry. He obediantly runs over to her and they return toward the bordering fences seperating the playground from houses. The remaining child watches his old chum return home, and then slowly begins to cautiously descend from his elevated position in the tree.
Upon making contact with the ground, he runs to the other side of the fences, disappearing behind a line of trees.
The park has grown barren, except for me and the old man strolling with his dog. I observe the peaceful scene: a man in his golden years, relaxing and soaking up the beauty of nature, and life. He seems unaffected by the material possessions of the world, and I don't think he has noticed me observing him. He i amazed by the simple yet astonishing qualities of nature. I find this park cold, and altogether boring, but at the same time it is quite peaceful. I wish I had the time to appreciate the free life of the outdoors. The scene reminds me of a realistic excerp from a Robert Frost poem.
I watch as the old man slowly proceeds to the opposite end of the park, and disappears through the parking lot.