The River

The early morning fog rolled across the river, slicking her red curls to her head.  Standing ahead of where the fields gave to the rocky bank, grass pricked her feet.  Calm, quiet bubbling rode the flow into the loch.  Her skirts, tartan red and black, gently bounced from her knees as strode across the bank.  She shivered as she stepped into the water, letting her skirt drop.  Working the dirt from her hands, careful not to dirty her bleached woolen blouse, grey eyes looked to the green rolling hills beyond.  The farm had not been right since her father died.