The River

I remember the place by the river 

where Uncle Dan taught me how to shoot guns 

and Grandma helped me name the tadpoles 

and we'd float downstream in black rubber inner-tubes

and I'd always come home to the city with my fingers smelling like dirt and worms. 

We'd chase after butterflies for what seemed like hours 

and upon crushing their wings and killing them 

we'd look their pictures up in the nature book and discover they were actually moths, 

but we'd put them in jars anyway 

and pretend like they had a chance of surviving. 

We'd burn large crackling fires in deep pits 

and throw styrofoam plates and cups into them 

and roast marshmallows and hot dogs in the poisonous fumes. 

We'd make torches on the end of sticks 

and dance around like it was Lord of the Flies or something. 

And those were the best times of our lives.