I lived in this town my whole life, and most of the time that’s fine by me. But in the late fall when the sky fills with birds migrating south for the winter, traveling thousands of miles, I get homesick for places I’ve never been.

Places like the highest point of a mountain, where the snow starts to form slowly but surely. Where the orange from the setting sun meets the sky and the sudden crisp air. The base of the mountains contains fields of yellow and tall broken trees. Their branches are frail and jutting out in different directions; as if trying to cling to the warmth of a fading summer.

Amongst these trees are many more, but these ones are prosperous. Thick pine needles excited for the snow that will decorate them and give an extra tinge of beauty. There is a sort of mystery when glancing through the thicket to see the untouched forest floor. The mountain is still,  never embracing the heavy treading of hikers, tourists, and explorers.

These places I get homesick for, long for, are the places untouched. The isolation within these trees, both dead and alive, and knowing full well these places have never been experienced before.

They remain unscathed and pure. Oh, what I would give to live in that purity, stillness, and beauty. To watch critters scurry by welcoming me to their home of solace, their heaven. Already, it is my heaven too.


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