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The plank of wood waits, under the dust of it’s brothers, waiting, dust glittering the air, the hum of the sander, a little girl picks it up, decorates it with crayon. It still hangs over the door.
This creek flows swift. Quick. And dangerous it looks. The little sounds of the water hitting the rocks multiplies.
I want to cross this.
I look at the long wooden plank next to me. Should I trust it?
And I do.
And as I stand on the other side of the shore, I look back. And that flat wood is where I have first saw it.
Maybe I never needed it all along.
The plank of wood waits, under the dust of it’s brothers, waiting, dust glittering the air, the hum of the sander, a little girl picks it up, decorates it with crayon. It still hangs over the door.
This creek flows swift. Quick. And dangerous it looks. The little sounds of the water hitting the rocks multiplies.
I want to cross this.
I look at the long wooden plank next to me. Should I trust it?
And I do.
And as I stand on the other side of the shore, I look back. And that flat wood is where I have first saw it.
Maybe I never needed it all along.