Beneath the sky\'s loose blue weave,
small troops form in plaid armor,
an army of red-faced generals
eager to conquer the glider.
In the shaded corner, a seesaw war
is waged with noisy diplomacy,
each surge of weight a loud
argument over who\'s in control.
Muddy boots inscribe hieroglyphs,
battles lost and battles regained
in the sandbox, where rival kings
clash over shovels and faded pails.
The swings, suspended like tightropes,
become a race of aerial bravado,
feet grazing skies and gravity
forgotten, if only for a moment.
Their voices, a raucous bird chorus
fill the air with rapid declarations,
yet in these skirmishes lie lessons
on treaties, fairness, and flight.