A bird’s song. The bated breath of lazy tall grass dancing in a capricious morning breeze that carries sweet, flowery smells across heaven-verging fields bathed in blond light. The distinct chill of a fresh start galvanizes the senses. Good morning, my dear. Time loses its urgency in a place ostensibly designed to wake us up from sleepwalking through life. Contently quiet, the spoken word would only get in the way of the unspoken truth found amid the Ponderosa pine: Time is thin. As if sprung from some idealist’s mind, a simple walk is a meditative feast, a meandering ascend to unknown heights. A scene as pure and pretty as a dream, the prairie gold carries forth stories set in stone, summoning delight. A whispering breath, deep, but cautious, as not to disturb what surely must be ephemeral peace. A new day’s story so much bigger than my own, yet to be written, with the hopeful promise of an open end: Good morning, my dear.