|Logan and his brain|
The husks of leaves crackle beneath our feet, trees mark our passing silent in their circles. A cold sun glimmer dancing the small wind stirred chop of the lake, peaks through the gaps in their trunks. Old limbs lay here and there and full bodies fallen to the elements or bug that made home inside their bark. We pick a path that winds to the low ground where the crystal creek spills beneath a wooden bridge to join that greater body of water.
"Treasure," my son opens his fist dropping an object into my proffered hand.
An white plastic bottle top, dirt between the grip. Thrown from a car window and carried by rain, or dropped by a hunter, perhaps just another passing this way, unwilling to carry it further. We have several adorning bottles of soda at the house, but this one was found in the wild and can be owned by him, which makes it treasure.
"Look, a brain," my other son holds up a fruit or nut found beneath a tree.
This is his treasure. More poke their heads from beneath the quilt of leaves and are soon found by probing fingers. They fly well and leave a sting when they hit, but the boys laugh as they throw or try to jump out of the way when one is coming. They race between the trees chasing each other.
I turn the bottle cap over in my hand measuring its edges, tucking my sons treasure into a pocket before taking off after my own.
written for Theme Thursday and Imperfect Prose.