There’s a steady breeze from the south, cool enough to prickle the skin on my arms where I’m sitting in the shade. The grass is dry and rough, unpleasant on the areas of my legs that aren’t protected by my skirt.
In the distance I can hear the undulating hum of a lawnmower and the whir of a leaf blower. A woman is sitting on her porch and talking on the phone, the sound of her voice clear but her words indistinct.
There’s a small line of dead trees behind an old fence, the wood gray from weather and age. The playground is made of metal, painted brown and yellow.
Smells of dead leaves and grass.
The children run around yelling, while the two-year-old begins a tantrum on the grass.
By Autumn Rain 