Sunscreen slides down your temple as smoke from the bbq competition drifts over the fairgrounds, and you’re twisting the toe of your boot into the dirt, stalling.
Sitting on the rough valley oak bark with your feet dangling just over the river’s current, you feel the tree’s improbable balance — grounded and unshakable, even as the river pushes forward.
It’s a summer from simpler times – you sip down a root beer float as you watch your dad park the old diesel truck in the driveway. You run to grab your worn baseball glove to get a round of catch in before the lasagna is done cooking in the oven.
