Elizabeth Howard

Children, we played in Spring Creek, 
wading across the rock bed, slick with 
lush green moss.   We crept along like 
snails for fear of slipping and falling,
the agony of a bruised tailbone.  Our 
destination, the sand bar with its myriad 
of shells.  We built dams and bridges, 
mussel shells serving as scoops, spades, 
weapons against leeches and water 
snakes.  The next rain always destroyed 
our masterworks, carving rifts in dams, 
toppling bridges.  We started over,
reconstructing dam and bridge until 
teenagers, the deep danger of the blue 
hole called to us.  Snapping turtles, 
water moccasins, the yawning pit. 

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