Day 70. Tire Swang

based on the description thingy we did!

Tom swung, high and higher, legs wrapped tightly around the tire, imprinting them with the patterned tread. He bent his hips so the tire swing turned and turned on its rope and then reversed all its motions, and he watched his world spin around him; the two grandfather oak trees, bent as if to pick up their grandchildren; the clouds strewn across the sky like the remains of a quilt pecked by crows.
Tom held on only with his legs, arms waving, and the tire swung towards the grandfather tree. The tire paused at the end of its rope, like it was a pendulum in a clock, and the time it measured had stopped. And then Tom hit the tree, hard, and slipped off the swing, foot still tangled in the tire. The momentum dragged his head across the ground, his hair melding with the dry grass bleached bone white by sun. He scuffed up the old yellow grass beneath the white. He left the ground raw.
They found him at midday, when the air was the temperature of fevered skin, and they held his bones together, and he screamed and screamed as his father sawed the rope of the swing, cutting down the tire to hurl it across the yard.
The world was sick with summer.