When I am there,

I see the white, wooden, barn that is slowly falling apart,

the green, summer hills,

the clear, sparkling river,

the brown fields with small, slender, green things growing,

the giant, towering, forest-green pines,

the dirty, and muddy, yet peaceful cattle,

the small grey tractors, the big orange tractor,

the new, red, shed,

the two white pickup trucks,

the small, frisky chickens,

the little pasture with it’s long wavy grass,

the shimmering clear water from the creek,

the multiple tree houses of multiple color,

the wagons that rest in that little pasture,

the cousins white house on the other side,

the old brick smoke house,

the dark green four wheeler resting under a small pine,

the blazing yellow chicken coop,

the good, antiquated, white, farmhouse,

in other words; my home.