The grass is wet beneath our feet,

we dip to meet it every so often,

swaying back and forth,

back and forth,

back and forth,

on the rickety old wooden swing,

talking animatedly about everything

and nothing.

The light is few and far between,

raining down from the suddenly appeared stars,

and the slowly climbing moon.

Lights are bursting at the seams,

from the nearby cottage,

illuminating the ever blackening night.

Laughter erupts every few seconds,

giggles and chortles,

chuckles and snickers.

They go hand in hand with lively gestures

and the telling of tales.

But, faintly, one may strain to hear,

the whisperings of grass

and of crickets,

preparing for bed.

We sway back and forth,

like the waves in which we had been playing in earlier,

Retreating, only to surge ahead stronger again.

Pretending  to be flying,

we are little kids,

on the playground swing set.

But, we are also old high school friends,

catching up on each other’s’ lives,

at our 20^th school reunion.