The land is hilly and verdant green, it stores its thirsty snacks as mini lakes in its steep sided hollows.

Down to the west corner a hawk circles the pond there, looking for its evening meal. The peaceful perfection of it all is almost to much to stand.

To the south, in the distance, the foothills add a dark, bumpy line to the horizon. Everywhere there is growth as spring bursts forth from the soil; in the air, the sounds of life erupt across the valleys.

The old house sits at the top, highest point, nearly as weather-worn and battered as us.It could be a home, it could be, maybe ours. This land could possibly be ours, to share and stand steward over.

We could possibly do this together, possibly. The peaceful perfection of it all is almost to much to stand!