Down by the Riverside
The river. Hot and lazy under July sun. If I happen to feel like a swim, though, it’s a long stumble over sunbaked rocks for a hundred yards to get to the water. I stub my toes a dozen times. A persistent horsefly circles my head, buzzing evilly. When I finally reach the water, it’s brownish, murky, lukewarm. Heaven. I wouldn’t trade my river (the Schoharie Creek in upstate New York) for a thousand swimming pools with crystal turquoise water. I’ll take the smell of river mud over chlorine any day. Crayfish nibbling my bare feet? Dragonflies whizzing past? Not a problem. But wait. What about...
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