I wake up to a chilly November morning. Frost hugs the grass, running its icy fingers through the blades. I walk onto the porch, inhaling the crisp pre-winter air into my lungs. The outline of the mountains loom in the distance like a quiet giant, napping on a bed of dew. The sky looks like as if an artist had dripped pastel paints all over a blue easel, letting the light pinks and purples swirl together to create a spectacular scene. Overhead, a jet roars silently through the air, leaving behind a trail of white. The lazy sun rises over the gently rolling hills and winks at the golden countryside of my town. Another day has begun.
I can only notice the cedar tree in the front yard, swaying like a ballroom dancer, lost in its own rhythmic grace. Its leaves hold the comfortable memories of days and years past, a faint breeze tickling the branches.
Light dances through it, playfully hiding in every intimate crevice. The tree casst a massive shadow, not looming and avoided, but welcoming. It shares a kinship with the kind grass and warm soil. The cedar laughs in the golden morning sun, and it danced.
The clean scent of pine on the breeze blows across the river and greets me on these fine mornings. The chilly winds that come off of the Monongahela River now, blow as a cool breeze during summer. I can't wait!
Downtown, the buildings are very menacing to the eye; they seem as if they are sentinels keeping a close watch their town. How quickly the sunlight expires, leaving shadows from the river dancing on the darkening domiciles. My view only captures a portion of the town that runs along the river, where the buildings, silhouetted in the afternoon light, blend...