By Jim Freeze
I pass through a pocket of farmland, watching the characteristics meander and shift where back roads of the mountains take over. Mountains of golden autumn always remind me of you.
Commanding summits dominate much of the landscape now. Memories of you gradually widen. The brook, now fed by multitudes of springs, increases in volume and sound.
As I reach the bottom of the valley, I see there awaits a small village.
The brook has now swelled to a torrent.
You lived here once, chasing the butterflies upstream. Even though the river took you, it still brings me calm in this place.
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