Sliding

Here is another attempt at a poetic memory.

Sliding

We were lucky.
Our own backyard sliding hill.
Horses recently vacated,
lumps of manure still present.

Bundled against the cold,
snow pants, heavy coats,
freshly knit mittens covering tiny fingers.

Piling three on the toboggan, Dad gave a shove.
Zooming, flying, shouts of glee broke the silence.

Tail wagging, happy black dog ready for a job.
Clipped to the collar
the toboggan followed Smokey up the hill.

Laughing, holding hands,
we trudged up the hill.

Do it again!