Quiet River
The air was still the day he crossed the flowing border of the town. The air was still, and the sun leaned on this side of the river as his hiking boots rang the dull timbers of the bridge. The gnats and mosquitoes held their convention along the length of the river and shore, and they swarmed a halo around the stranger, but, I declare, not a one touched down on his dusty ball cap, nor lay tiny feet upon the sweat of the man’s face. He came with company that day; a dog the color of dried clay trotted at his side, looking neither right nor left, and moving as a dog...
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