Walking Sticks

I spotted a thin fallen branch hanging where it had caught in the crook of a tree on its way down after a winter storm. It was sturdy, about as big around as a baseball bat and the perfect height for a walking stick. I stripped off the tiny branchlets from its length and found a spot near a crook at shoulder height where my hand fit just right with the lines of the bark. They were all my walking sticks from our adventures. He'd saved them one by one and kept them all these years. Now that little barrel sat by my own back door.