The Front Car

The front car.
The beautiful aroma of old wood and hot grease.

The clickity-clack song of the chain.

It pulls you on a jerky journey towards the sky.

The sun kisses your face.

The wind flips your hair.

There is no turning back.

You are over the crest of the hill.

You raise your arms skyward.

Falling. Fast.

Nothing is in front of you.

No one can catch you.

You feel like a child.

The tracks squeal and roar beneath you.
Race through the tunnels.

Race through the trees.

It's over so fast.

Let's get in line again.