The life of the River
The ten-year old little boy cradled the fishing pole over his shoulder, as would a soldier marching off to war. His Levis jeans were a size too large and were rolled up at the bottoms as they hung over his tired tennis shoes. He was able to play hooky and stay on his grandparent’s farm today because his mother had to go to work. In his other hand, he carried the can of worms that he had collected from the garden. His fingers were caked with the sweet smelling brown red clay and dirt mixture. He adjusted the bill of the worn out ball cap that sat at an angle over his blond curls that fell around his eyes.
He stepped over the branches and the wooden fence post that had been knocked down from neglect. The worn path was laid out in…
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