Still Moving

I cut through the park

at the end of a long day—

the light already gone from the top of things,

everything going gray at the edges.

The swingset was still there.

Same frame, same chains, same flaking red paint.

But the swings were moving—

both of them, nobody on them,

drifting at different heights,

out of time with each other.

The chains made that sound.

I stopped at the edge of the blacktop.

One seat higher than the other.

Both turned slightly sideways,

like something interrupted.

I watched until they slowed.

Not all at once—

just smaller and smaller arcs,

the squeak going quiet

the way a voice trails off

in the middle of something.

I kept walking.

Didn't know what to do with that.

Still don't.