Chain Swing

I gripped the heavy iron link of the low boundary chain with both hands. It was cold and textured with chipped enamel. Hooking my boots over the bottom curve, I hoisted my weight up. The iron sagged immediately, groaning faintly against the wooden bollard. It began to sway forward. I bent my knees, leaned into the arc, and let the momentum carry me. Back and forth. The rush of air brushed against my face. After three solid swings, I timed the peak, straightened my legs, and dropped cleanly onto the clover below. Solid landing. My balance held true.