Skater, skater, on the pond, just skating around without a care in the word. In the summer it's a bug, in the winter it's a kid. The pond skaters of summer go away for the winter. Are they hibernating under the water? Are they eggs or larvae waiting for spring, to hatch and metamorph into adults, ready to mate? The child skating doesn't know, only knows the criss-cross sounds of the skates on the ice, only knows the cold of the ice when she falls and pushes herself back up. She forgot to wear gloves. She didn't forget to wear gloves. She didn't want to wear gloves. Gloves are cumbersome. When her hands are cold, she puts them in her pocket, the kind that goes all the way across the front of her sweatshirt, so she can hold her own hands. Her left hand warms her right hand, her right hand warms her left hand, and they feel cozy together, and she feels fancy skating like that, so nonchalant, no hands needed for balance. The skates give her freedom. She can skate faster than she can run in the snow, practically as fast as she can bicycle in the summer, or so it feels. She imagines there are sharks under the ice, and she is safe above the ice from them. If one were to come bursting through the ice and chomp her right over her head and take her down into the water, she thinks she would metamorph into a fire-breathing dragon and burst up and out through the sharks inside, spraying shark guts on everyone else at the pond.
2 months ago in #freewrite by stinawog