I’m not much of an outside cat, so I rarely have occasion to consider the weather,
but in Indianapolis we get eight to ten properly beautiful days a year, and this was one of them.
I hardly had to paddle at all as the river bent to the west. The water crinkled with sunlight.
A pair of wood ducks noticed us and took off, their wings flapping desperately.
At last, we came to the bit of land that as kids we’d named Pirates Island.
It was a real river island, not like the pebble beach we’d paddled past earlier.
Pirates Island had thickets of honeysuckle and tall trees with trunks gnarled from the yearly spring floods.
Because the river has so much agricultural runoff, there were crops, too:
Little tomato and soybean plants sprang up everywhere, well fertilized by all the sewage.
I steered the canoe onto the algae-soaked beach and we got out to walk around.
Something about the river had made Daisy and me quiet, almost unaware of each other, and we wandered in different directions.
I’d spent part of my eleventh birthday here. Mom had made a treasure map, and after cake at home,
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