The Pines

I close my eyes, I breath slowly.

I'm no longer in my seat, but walking through the pines.

My shoes crunch against the pine cones and needles from the evergreens, though my bare feet are well acquainted with their prickly nature through my years growing up.

The wind is rushing through the trees, and it sounds like some celestial river.

The sun is shining off the clouds, and they look silver and bright in the deep periwinkle sky, contrasting with the golden waving fields of wheat graced with tall, reaching pines. I can pick a stock of week and eat the grains.

I will always call this place home.

I can smell the trees and fields. Bachelor's button dots the edges of the wheat, and I can make beautiful flower crowns with it.

I spend hours reminiscing about the pines, and I will go back before long. Until then, I still have work to do.