Moist dirt
Soft Beneath our feet
Descending the hill
To our playground
The creek high
Above the Poison Oak
And shattered slate rocks
No indication
Of creatures
Playfully scurrying
Within the trees
Our youth
Swallowing our maturity
As we totter across the fallen logs
Over the stream
Flashing sporadic
Smirks for the
Canon SX500 PowerShot
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