Casey Pycior

As cars pass, laboring through the slush, a boy, bundled against the stiff wind in his snow suit, gloves, and scarf, leans on his upright toboggan, waiting his turn atop the snow-packed overpass— the highest point in town. First one car exits, and then another, each creeping down the icy ramp. The brown grass pokes through the two grooves carved in the short hill. As the second car fishtails to a stop at the bottom, brake lights glowing on the dirty snow, the boy’s turn comes. His trip to the bottom is swift— only a second or two— and he bails out just before the curb. It’s not much, but it’s sledding in Wichita.