Reflections

Walking down to the river I hear brown thrashers fliting about in the bushes. Arriving at the river I see the gentle flow. Leaves are sprinkling down into the current and gently floating downstream. I sit on the riverbank and watch for a few minutes. I see the rust colored needles of the cyprus, the green of pine and live oak, the gold of wild hickory. I lay back and rest my head in my interlocked hands. In the tree above me there's spanish moss, and I look past into the blue sky. There's buzzards riding the air currents. Some low, two higher up. Upstream I hear the call of the kingfisher, then he comes flying downstream. As I watch I reflect on my childhood spent in this very place. This is where we crossed the river in a mule driven wagon. We would ride in the rear of the wagon and drag our feet through the water. Our herds of cows were across the river and we would go there to kill two or three for our meat. The kids were given hats and told to collect locust sheds off the trees. That kept us busy while older family members dressed out the meat. For us kids it was days of fun. I get up and start back, I can hear the stream nearby, the soothing sound it makes. Just ahead is a clearing by the stream where the family would gather for picnics and maybe a fish fry. The place is growing up now with scrubs and briars, but there's still lots of fun memories there. As I move farther on the road I hear thrashers and squirrels in the brush. As I make itback to the road I leave the past behind. I look at my watch as I start up the hill. Oh gosh! I've been too long in the past! I'll be late for work!