They always seem to want to go higher. "Higher, higher!" they say, laughter spilling between their words as their feet brush the ground, and their hair glows like strands of golden thread in the light of the setting sun. Throwing their heads back, they laugh: their voices are high, and sweet; like the song of a bird. They aren't afraid as the swing pulls them away from the ground, and they laugh as the ground rushes towards them again. Back, and forth. The ground is dry; hard, with puffs of dust rising as I step; forward, back, to receive the motion of the swing, but the exaltation in their faces, and the sound of their rippling laughter (it reminds me of a stream flowing) is enough to make me forget - at least for a moment - that we are in the desert.