Turning her back on the rusty boards of her family's sharecropper cabin, Myop walked along the fence till it ran into the stream.
Around the spring, where the family got drinking water, silver ferns and wildflowers grew.
By twelve o'clock, her arms laden with sprigs of her findings, she was a mile or more from home. Myop began to circle back to the house
Her heel became lodged in the broken ridge between brow and nose, and she reached down quickly, unafraid, to free herself. It was only when she saw his naked grin that she gave a little yelp of surprise.
Myop gazed around the spot with interest. Very near where she'd stepped into the head was a wild pink rose. As she picked it to add to her bundle she noticed a raised mound, a ring, around the rose's root.
Around an overhanging limb of a great spreading oak clung another piece. Frayed, rotted, bleached, and frazzled--barely there-- but spinning restlessly in the breeze.