Writing Portfolio: The River

The River

Late summer morning I bolt from the back door,
         barefoot, carrying a pillowcase for collecting treasures, for sitting on, for wearing.
Wild child, pretending to be orphaned, or a runaway captive, or a free bird.
Running downhill half a mile, rocky road, dusty feet, until I get to the field. No one sees me.

I am alone.

I slither under the barbed wire fence, and dive into the shoulder high grass.
Completely encased and completely still - becoming one with my surrounding.
The dust on my feet dissipates as muddy water encircles my ankles.
    Frogs, birds, small creatures, small me, in the waving grass together.

I creep and crouch and sprint and leap - still on the go. My destination: the River.
  Careful footed, I braid myself through the fields, every so often jolted from my dream-like determination by the sound of a roaring 4-wheeler, or a distant voice.

I duck.

Passing by the pond, abandoned by visitors for what could be decades, I wonder who else knows about this secret place.  Am I the only one alive in the world who knows about this pond-discovery?
 I imagine what girl or boy from a hundred years ago played here. Who does the half-sunken row boat belong to? I stand there for a long time, wondering.

I continue.

Hours later, I make it to the river bank. I sit. I ponder. I make patterns in the sand.
By now my pillowcase is full of long grass to weave together into a mat. I haven't figured out how to make a basket yet.  Hot sun. The breeze occasionally whisking against my freckled skin. I dip my toes in the cool river but never venture further than knee deep. I know what the river can do - I know the power it holds.  It's late afternoon now, it's time to head back.

I'll come back tomorrow.