He rummaged around and found it under a pile of leaves. He had to pull a few twigs off of it and some bark, but finally he got it perfect.
He ran to the edge of the yard and pointed it at a passing truck, yelling at the top of his lungs. He pointed it at things and slammed it on the ground. He made noises like a gun while aiming it.
He hit acorns with it. He swept the leaves off the yard with it. He beat trees with it.
He came over near me, swinging it back and forth. He started hitting the ground with it. I asked…”What do you have there, John?”
Without looking at me, he replied, “It’s a stick, Dad.”
