They were ten and twelve, scrawny arms and gamboling legs. Best friends on this late spring day. The rains had come and gone, washing away the remnants of winter’s debris. They race along the ridge, chasing winds that whisper secrets only they can hear. They follow those whispers deep into the woods, lured from an often trod path.
For who can resist the wind?
“Hey,” calls out the eldest, his ginger hair curling from beneath his baseball cap, “What”s this?”
Continue reading at A View to a Book
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 