Fleeting Moments

Every day I take the same drive from the village where the trees canopy the mysterious, winding road. It makes me think of home, the deep south, where the old oaks line the long drives, escorting guests to the prestigious antebellum homes that house the stories of old. The move happened so quickly, reflecting on what I left behind bears down on me, but only for a fleeting moment; for here, I feel joy for the land, it speaks to me, and the water beckons. Twenty-eight miles of dramatic edges that cut deep and curves that burn too; but, everywhere I look, still, I see life, and still, I feel love, not the sadness that burdens some, though I wouldn’t dare turn a blind eye.

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