There is a window in the office where I work that overlooks the playground next door. Seated at my desk, I can look out this window and am rewarded with a most delightful view. Several times during the day, the students at the elementary school are released to the always ready play are A. Children of many colors and sizes romp around the grounds, whooping and hollering and carrying on as children do. I see swings flying in the air, teeter totters balancing precariously on end, big robber balls earning new bruises on the blacktop. In the foreground are picnic benches under an aging oak tree, where little girls come to share secrets and little boys sneak up from behind to steal them away. As I sit at my desk and observe the frenzied play of these children who are working so hard at being children, I see a small boy to my right. What catches my eye is that he is standing in the area of the soccer goal, by himself, looking down at his shoes. He picks at his navy blue sweat jacket, pulling the string ties back and forth through the casing. He stubs his Nike'd tennis shoe in the dirt, again, and again, and again. I see his lips move--he seems to be talking to himself, all alone, oblivious to the world around him. There are children at play in the background, plenty to team up with, yet he stands idle, off to himself. Watching him, I begin to fantasize about his melancholy. Is he an only child of working parents who are so busy with their own lives they don't have time for him? Or is he one of several children, caught in the stampede of family life, getting trampled on by the older children as they pass him up, and pulled down by the younger siblings as they compete with him. Is he loved or abused? Smart or slow to learn? What does he think about when he's by himself? What are his dreams? His fears? Is he a new child, too shy to make friends? Or is he a victim of the cruelties of child's play? Days of my own childhood come flooding back to me. Remembering the days when I felt as he must be feeling now, so alone. As an adult, I can still feel that sometime hollowness. I understand these feelings even less than I did when I was his age. I ache for this small child that bas so much to learn and experience, as much potential for pain in his future as happiness. I want to reach out to him, wrap my arms around him and tell him that it's ok, he's not alone, that I care, as will so many others in his life to come. I want to assure him that it's alright to feel the way he does, but that it gets better and he must look to the good things, to learn from his experiences. I want to give him all the answers to all the questions that no one ever gets until they don't need to know anymore. I find myself rising from behind my desk, mesmerized by the little form. before me. I walk towards the window, my eyes not budging front their goal. He's still plowing the earth with the toe of his shoe, talking away to whatever has a moment to listen. My eyes fill with tears--I can't bear this pain any more. I reach out for the window frame, leaning into it in weariness of a life hard fought, knowing of the battle he has yet to face... Out of the window, the author can see the following EXCEPT ______.