Last sunrise over the mountains is perfect, fiery pink over new snow and velvet peaches along the southern ridge. The coyotes sneak by when they can't get shot, a housecat and a hawk hunt the same fieldmice. I sit on the floor now, it helps me eke out the last of everything: the view, the peace, the story I came here to find. A pile of notes lie in the completed pile, a crisp, clean manuscript sits on my desk. It's time to wrap up and go home.
You were always late to everything but my, when you find your answers you sure find them. Your father asks you if it's love that's making you so happy, and you do not know how to explain that it is, but not how he wishes it. That putting ink to paper is the only way your spine aligns, your soul breathes, everything feels right. A retreat wraps up but the breath in your lungs comes back where you go. This story is yours.
You tell it.
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