Don't Drink The Fish

The mule-pulled wagon shook as the four iron strapped wooden wheels danced across holes, ruts, and river rock in the sunbaked dirt road. Our rear ends ached from the wooden seats endless pounding, our breathing labored from stifling dust, little rivulets of sweat burned our eyes, itching dust streaked our faces, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky to hide us from the white furnace's glow. Pop finally pulled over and we climbed down from the wagon, scooted down the red clay bank to the shallow creek. "Watch out for the minnows, don't drink any". We cupped our hands and scooped up cold clear water that gushed out of the earth from an underground river that began somewhere far away. Thirst quinched, dirt streaks washed off of our faces, and momentarily cooled by the slightest of breezes we climbed back up the bank, got in the wagon and the torture started all over again.