DER GREIF
Owen McCarter

The river winds through the hills like a caught snake. It's dark body, twisting back and forth. It’s mouth is always open, always swallowing. I remember when we made our own fishing rods and caught trout in the bend by the old church. We returned home beaming, holding their lifeless bodies like treasured silver. It was then that we learned more about our river, that we had killed the animals, ...

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