A meadow lies before you, warm and yellow. Tall grasses, stems dried golden, flow down the slight hill and fall into the thin, tall trees. Their dark green branches create a web of shadows. Sap seeps from the bark in spots. Bees buzz between trees and grass, hovering over flowers.
You dig your toes into the damp dirt beneath your feet, watching wildflowers sway in the breeze. The sun is warm on the back of your neck and the muscles of your shoulders begin to relax. Pine and pollen, dirt and hints of fire smoke fill your nose.
The smell of sanctuary.
When next you return, the trees will be gone, but you will have already explored their secrets. The meadow will be naught but a memory but one that you have cherished. And you, your bones will be as dry as the stems of the grass. When next you return, you’ll drift with the wind. You’ll settled at the feet of the flowers. And your spirit, it will be free.