The River.

.... in the.....

There’s a stick lying in the grass at the side of the river, the swimmer is thinking about Huckleberry Finn and on the other side of the water the frogs are calling. 

Blue dragonflies skip from floating leaf to dangling branch.

Fish glide; a frog jumps in and hurries to the safety of the bottom.

Air temperature has been hovering in the mid-thirties most of the day and the swimmer doesn’t need to towel off; he sits down in the grass and reads one more chapter.

Then looks at the stick.

The stick is large, the broken end of a branch and the swimmer can imagine the weight of the stick, substantially in his empty hand.

He thinks about picking the stick up and throwing into the currant, but then hesitates.

Would the stick be happier staying where it is, in the grass – or floating downstream?

Past the frogs.

Past the watch of the ruined castle on the not so distant bluff.

Past the old abandoned train stop.

Under the bridge.

To the open lands beyond where farmers are growing sunflowers and sweet-corn.

The swimmer thinks about all this as he decides whether or not to.

Pick up.

Throw.

Or let rest.

He (the swimmer is a he) also thinks about his sandals.

Put them on.

Or not.

Bare feet on the sandy bank feels like a perfect way to finish the day.

But he still has to walk back through the forest.

There is a stick lying in the grass at the side of the river before the forest begins; the swimmer is thinking about Huckleberry Finn.

And on the other side of the water the frogs are starting to sing.

NOT  formerly published in The Archives.