Home

I often dream of a place far away planted in the wilderness of solitude. The faded shades of oak and cedar shrouded by the driven snow. The sound of squirrels and birds overtaken with the crackling of firewood. An earnest owl will toil in vain to awake me from my slumber. His clockwork hoot a gentle footnote to the sound of burning pine. There's a humble lake not too far to walk whose fishes have already said hello. This is home.