Six Sentence Stories - Bridge

Sometimes I feel like writing gets one from point A to point B in one's life, kind of like a bridge does. I am thankful for blog hops, such as this one hosted by Denise of Girlie on the Edge's Blog. I am linking my post to Six Sentence Stories - Bridge. 

In the summer it was possible to see the rust-colored bottom of the creek, unless the cows, on their way to being milked, had just plodded through and stirred up the creek bed with their hooves.

She was always on the lookout for the glimmer of an agate which may have traveled downstream during the times when the creek rose and flooded over its banks. 

Much of the stream meandered amongst tree roots which fought to retain their own claim to the soil especially during what was jokingly referred to as the monsoon season. 

Some of the larger roots cradled pools of water and provided a shady refuge for an occasional trout or two during fishing season.

When the water level was low and not so swift, she could feel the coolness of the water as it pressed her knee-high black rubber farm boots against her legs, and she felt completely safe forging the stream, knowing the water wasn’t anywhere near as high as the top of her boots.

It was quite another matter in the winter when she had to walk the plank by crossing the make-do bridge comprised of a single slippery 2” x 8” weathered board resting on the soggy creek banks not much higher than the murky, turbulent, roiling water just to do a single but necessary chore on the other side.