Cassandra Banks is on early morning playground duty. She is in position as the first busloads arrive. Children hurry down sidewalks, sprint across blacktop, and morph into powerful stampeding hordes. The last of them plunge down sandy slopes and fan out to claim territory on the endless flat dirt arena below.
They peel off in twos and threes as they reach their preferred infrastructure along the way: Swings, climbing bars, sand box, tether ball poles, basketball hoops, hand ball walls, lines painted for hop scotch and dodge ball. Stopping by tables for jump ropes and frisbees; nets of tennis balls, rubber/ foot/ basket/ and soccer balls.
Mrs. Banks stands on the edge of the blacktop with her whistle. It is attached to a plastic coiled slinky bracelet, Royal blue today. She scans the length of the lower field and the aura forming above it, like an Olympian Windshield Wiper.
The Playground seems newly created, each morning dawning a spectacular phenomenon. Siblings separate, friends come together, all spontaneously sorted by mutual interest and energy. It’s a beautiful sight to see…really magical.
Not as beautiful as murmurations1 of starlings above the North Sea around the British Isles after their long flight from Mongolia, but these desert kids have their own radar and can generate impressive intuitive patterns out there in the wind with the dust devils.
Including teenage life guarding, she has observed these close contact movements most of her adult life. She is familiar with the difference between the graceful crash and roll that may follow a flying leap to catch a spiraling football vs. a tangled up heap of a child who has just been blindsided by a self-possessed clod who has neither time nor inclination for the Golden Rule.
The child in the first case relishes the accomplishment, pride radiating through the dust like a prizewinning sunrise. The second one, depending on past social history with his adversary, will either shake it off, chase him down, or find Mrs. Banks to report the offense and demand restitution, a clean up, or at least some sympathy.
Mrs. Banks knows the value of the upset victim’s journey from the insult on the field to the ‘Rescue Station’ her presence represents. She waits. She would have sent a runner to the office for help if necessary.
When deep water was involved, she knew the difference between gleeful splashing/shrieking and quiet signs of an obtructed air passageway. She knew when to offer a pole, throw in a rope, or jump in and scull, keeping her head above water, eyes fixed on the would-be drowner as she approaches for the flip-around and Cross-Chest carry.
The starlings are generally a highly social family. Most species associate in flocks of varying sizes throughout the year. Murmuration describes the flocking of starlings, including the swarm behaviour of their large flight formations.
A wonderful title - Pleasures of the Playground. I had one of my most destined moments on a playground. I have fulfilled it several times, and now I'm at my last chapter waiting to hit that Pleasure Playground - thank you Sherry. Your art makes the world an even better place....🩵🙏
Love Gumdrops & Starling Murmuration is Fantastic!
"The Playground seems newly created, each morning dawning a spectacular phenomenon." The play is anything but rehearsed. Serendipity rules.