Vultures circling around the bounds,
Drowning the silence of the grounds,
Wings flapping towards the sky and down at the grass,
Making the wind go so fast that when it hits you it feels like glass,

On the ground, in the grass are frogs spotted with personality,
Hopping on leaves that are crunchy,
Making beats of different crunches and voices,
But then the sound hushes,

Letting the swings speak with scratchy chains,
Back and forth front to back it stays in tune with the rain,
Then it starts and stops again squeaking and scratching,
Almost like they're breathing,

The slide has no voice but static that pops,
Pop,pop,pop they sound like mini raindrops,
Getting attention of the homosapien eye,
But eventually you will see it die,

When it dies butterflies will pass by,
Leaving them to cry,
Flapping their wings sounding like whispers,
They know all the answers