Saturday, August 20, 2011
You were two, three, four steps in front of me. I could not stop staring at the backsides of your shoes, peaking out from the your frayed and darkened pant hem. I could not stop staring at your bobbing, careless gait. We trod, stumbling, stamping, tramping through small hills and valleys, through the thick trees on the backside of the creek, balancing on the banks, tiptoeing around darkened holes in the ground, jumping across fragmented portions where the rain had eaten away at muddy bliss. The roots were beginning to show. The undersides of the overgrown walls which lined this stream were stacked with stones and sediment. We'd wade into pools calf deep, rolled up jeans, feet steadfast in soil, toes wiggling and searching in the ancient, lovely, squishy sod.
Where was I?
Your shoes sat on the bank at this point. Socks rolled up, shoved in and forgotten. We took large sticks and made pictures in the sand. We skipped back and forth between flat rocks protruding between banks and stepped back into the water once more, proud of our Summer day balancing act.