The Hiding Place

I remember those lazy days of summer when we rode away on horseback down dusty, deserted country roads; took our shoes and socks off; neared the trail to the river; walked so free and easy; gouging out that red Alabama loam with our toes. When we got to our fishing hole, you took worms and baited my hook; then, served me your specialty, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We ate while I listened to the whippoorwills imitating other birds miles down stream; echoing back their strange, haunting melodies. I fell asleep there, still holding on to my fishing pole. You never listened to those country sounds. I now wish they'd return, those free and easy days of summer when the wind blew all our problems away like crumpled up pieces of paper and saved them for us another year in its hiding place stashed behind the thicket. Janet Marie Bingham