Down the road from my great grandmother’s farm

we sat atop a rock,
at the summit of a path,
whose entry was hidden by bushes;
My brother was studying the intense saturation of the sweeping sky,
fresh paint dripping with hues of yellow and orange and pink,
leaving only the soul-embodied shadows of my cousins in the foreground,
full with love, full with light.
There was a comfortable silence;
Happy to be in eachother’s company.
Suddenly, I spoke:  
“How about we make this our secret place and   
come back here every Thanksgiving?”    
Everyone nodded their heads in agreement,
as the crisp air encapsulated my words,
solidifying them in the trees circling us.
Across the landscape, a bird hummed a tune I’d heard exactly one year ago
and the falling snow muffled all other noises,
floating tranquilly through the sky with the bird,
no desire to be anywhere else but
here.