Robin wrote the few paragraphs below as a 7th-grade writing assignment. His teacher enjoyed it so much, calling it the best middle-school writing she'd seen in her years of teaching. She then listed the names of a half-dozen famous authors on the chalkboard, read Robbie's paragraphs without attribution, and asked the class to guess the author!A Place of Importance, by Robert Micah LovellThe path, viewed from above, looked not much different than a burnt sienna-snake trail among a yard crowded full with dark green grass, ever-twisting in a long, narrow route. It began where the rocky lane in front of our house faded into the vast ocean of tall, tired oaks that inhabited that old forest. It diverged at many places, and every different pathway that split away from the original trail would always take you to somewhere different.
My two brothers and I used to prowl among the great trails on long hikes every summer, marching proudly alongside acres of aged pine trees. Because we traveled in order of age, oldest in front, I always trailed along in the back as a follower. We explored every nook and cranny of the whole wood, and knew it almost better than we knew our very own selves. Sometimes to get away from the house every once in awhile, I would sneak out into the woods, secretly, covering my furtive footprints with every step I took. I would not do this often, for I was generally a happy boy, but the calming whistle of wind swimming across the sky was a soothing song when I was feeling melancholy.
What a view it was on the path at dawn, a slithering zephyr, that passed through the tall yellow grasses like an invisible wave in front of the setting vermilion sun. In the dirt, imprints of strangers' shoes rose into the sky with the breeze, and washed its slate clean until the new sunrise.
Even now, I visit the old trails and I listen to the wailing wind’s song, and I take the path that leads down to the river. I find a good sized walking- stick and march lively along the rugged dirt trail, but this time, only one thing is different. No, not the new tree-fort beside the river, or the fact that I hold a different stick. This difference changes the whole feeling of the march. The smell of independence now dwells in the atmosphere, because for now, I march in front.
