Two slabs of rubber hang suspended by chains, empty and hot under the early summer sun. A rut is worn beneath the swings and clay filled mud colors the puddles a golden hue. Time here holds still like it is waiting for something; the weeds peaking from the pebbles stop growing and children waiting unseen within brick walls hold their breath.

Things are quiet, nothing left to say or do, time is left to the clock. Hundreds of eyes are glued to it and everyone forgets about the discomfort of their legs glued to the plastic seats. Their eyes twitch back and forth out the window and back to the clock. The swings outside beckoning them, calling, creaking when ever a summer breeze would blow.

All it takes is one second to change a scene, a heavy metal bell wails out loud echoing through the building and stretching over the playground. Voices scream out above thundering feet soon muffled down to the grinding of stone beneath tennis shoes. The swings in no time are consumed in the excitement of summer vacation.