I know of a place,
a gentle, excluded place,
where time has no power,
where childhood returns,
where child hood lingers,
where imagination is king.
I know of a place,
an ancient, powerful place,
where the sounds of a rushing river lull one to sleep,
where the stars are as numerous as the possibilities,
where one can hear the very earth speak,
where a child, of any age, is free.
I know of a place,
where one can spend the morning a pirate,
where one can spend the evening a frontiersman,
where one can spend the night a dreamer.
I know of a place,
where the air is thin,
where just breathing fills oneself with vitality,
where doing nothing at all is more fulfilling than the most exciting day anywhere else,
where one can be alone,
truly alone,
and feel the sanctity of nature.
I know of a place,
where sunlight filters through the pine needles far above, and the sagebrush scrapes my legs,
where a table round can become a circus,
where a water tank can become a fort,
where I can be free.
Oh how I envy the frontiersmen, the explores, the pirates, the dreamers,
who had their whole lives to experience such a place as this.
