Childhood Days

My fishing hole was down a dirt bank lined with prairie grass. The wood post marked my secret entrance down the clay cliff. An old barb wire fence ran from one edge of the creek to the other, the sagging wire nearly touching the water. The creek banked right, creating  a deep pool that seemed to attract mostly yellow carp, a few trout and occasional slimy green sucker fish. Only the trout were taken home. I spent hours, day after summer day alone, wandering up and down the small stream. Old wrecked cars under mounds of dirt, groves of thickly growing Russian olive trees and the slow moving shallow water occupied my childhood days. Nebraska