By Daniel Romo
Fog swept across the playground, compliments of the Pacific. Children on swings dipped their toes in vapors of sky each time momentum pushed them forward. Monkey bars became a mixture of swinging limbs and persistent mist. And seagulls camouflaged themselves in the low clouds which seemed to sprout wings, as the birds soared and then returned closer to the ground. We threw tennis balls at their bodies; our ultimate prize was BULLSEYE! An explosion of feathers floating upon us like a twisted ticker-tape parade. But rarely was our anticipation and aim good enough to even clip a wing. So much can be said for guessing right. For throwing your best fastball towards Heaven as hard as you can, knowing it will just fall back down. The bell rang and we had to freeze until the teacher on duty blew her whistle, otherwise risk standing on the line at lunch. On these days we headed back into the classroom, better boys than before, knowing future cloudy days were ours to conquer.
