Chapter 38: Reaping the Harvest

A gentle breeze came off Manatee Creek, keeping the late-morning sun from becoming unbearable. A momma duck floated past, trailed by seven little babies in a zig-zag pattern. About three feet behind them was baby number eight, not seeming to care that it wasn't with the others. Rhychard took a pull from his Rocky Patel as he watched the loner stop here and there periodically to investigate some floating leaf or pesky insect. Take your time and enjoy the sights, my friend. Things change all too quickly.

The flat rock—his Thinking Rock as he liked to call it—was warming as the sun floated higher into the morning sky. The creek lapped at the stone as the water drifted by, a harmony mixing with the rustling leaves above him. A mullet jumped off to the west. Rhychard tilted his head back and allowed the sun to warm his face. The heat helped cool the tension his morning had brought him, and there had been quite a bit of tension.

He heard the snap of twigs behind him. Out of reflex, he sent a