Hiking with children,
Your children, other children,
Starts out as a wonderful idea.
Their faces excited. Their shoes are laced tight. The collar is placed on the dog.
Our pale faces,
Unused to the warmth,
Gaze up at the strange ball of light.
We start up the hill,
And that’s when they realize,
And boring is not what they do.
The snow bank beckons.
The mud puddles taunt.
Sticks on the ground become weapons,
To torture their sibling or poke at the dog or are used,
To make the wind blow.
“I just did that Mommy!”
“You made the wind blow?”
His face nods yes, he is magic.
Forward motion is mythical.
A destination is comical.
I will just simply stand here while they,
Make the wind blow,
Or become an airplane,
Or a spy ninja shooter good guy,
Or talk incessantly,
about a pile of dog poop,
that they saw way back at our house.