There was a place long, long ago that I used to know. No one knew about it, not quite yet, anyway. The grass grew tall and strong around a white ranch fence that encased wild horses with long, tangled hair, and curious eyes. The street that took you to this place, to this magic, it was old and weathered, tired and too many times used, for an unknown land, anyway. The trees grew tall and strong, in one with the horses. With Fall, the branches were stained bright orange, blood red, and sparkling gold. When Winter threatened the hinges of Fall’s clasping fingers, the grass seeped with these warm hues, leaving the trees bear and reaching for the sun, all the more predominant with the bleeding ground. A Weeping Willow shadowing a sparkling pond, sung her sad song, upsetting the slate blue glass, making ripples protrude in their slow, soothing way, calling in big fish, whose names I cannot yet recall. Her long branches and lacking leaves swept the water’s edges, laying claim to the calm and agreeing with a warm breeze. This magic—my magic, how could I have left it? Is it lost for time, or the time being?, a question I ask myself many a day.