maine, and i forget.

east coast. rest and relaxation.
chilled beers in hand, floating in inner tubes and no responsibilites.
barefoot, and picking blueberries. sleeping in grandparents' creeky wooden cabin,
the smell of worn years, endless summers, and damp heavy air sweeping in through the creeking windows.
mama loon and baby loon swim side by side.
thunderstorms... soulfull and strong. they are to be heard. they are to be known. i feel small under them.
the sky speaks different every night, i give into their glow. i try and respond, but i dont seem to speak their language. not yet, at least. worn treasures surround me, from far beyond my years. yellowed photographs, and heavy chests filled with wool blankets that hibernate during the snow covered winters. it is here, where i belong. the isolation is quite heavenly.