was about wishes, mainly about where to live, not what to do with one’s life. Tonight my love and his parents come up the mountain and they’ll miss the beauty I see right now. The golden grasses swaying in the wind, the sun casting shadows that I cannot hope to capture in a photograph, and I don’t paint. As I write the magic lessens, and words cannot contain what I feel for this country especially at this time of day.
It’s magic time. Ephemeral, like life. Since I cannot adequately describe it in words, you might look to “America, The Beautiful” to give some semblance of its majesty. Folks are home, must go finish dinner.
Dee
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