I Like It Here

Where sheep graze lazily 

around the sunset-stained silo across our street.

I live in a world fit for a stamped postcard, 

wild purple berries lining the valley paths 

and tree-covered hideaways, where stillness

is not only allowed but encouraged. 

Nothing is demanded of the farmland wanderer,

perfumed by morning dew and inebriated

by the gentleness of a dying August.

I like it here, where the wild river twists

in its rugged beauty, where the sky breaks

open enough for me to hear my heartbeat

singing I am alive, I am alive,

I know I am alive. 

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