In front of Sticks, there was a large field that was grass most of the year, grass that grew down to a small dirt road that ran along the river’s bank and twisted with the contour of the waterway. June was the exception to the color of the field, when fabulous yellow blossoms, four feet in height would take over the grass in the thousands, replicating the scene where Dorothy attempts to run through the field of poppies to reach the Emerald City. Ben had always parked his Scamp next to the river where the walking road started, and finished each day strolling along it under the moonlight, taking in the fresh air and reliving the day’s good memories.
The wind had calmed down, which left the snowflakes in a majestic airborne dance, gracefully making their landing to add to the accumulation that had already broken all March records.
The walkers were huddled together and in deep conversation, as Gloria watched from her window.
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