Early in the morning, drive through the mountain pass. Mist rising off the valley, fairies dancing across the water, in your youth you knew there was something otherworldly about that brief glimpse into the beyond. Nothing is as silent as daybreak. Farewells at the airport, nostalgic drives through old haunts, arrive back at the turn in the road when the sun is high - miss the house and have to reverse - dive back into a rhythm that reminds itself of home.
The American West aches in me, calls me back, woos me with its dark wood and high mountain air, drags the desert across my skin, whispers love songs at the nape of my neck. I thought this was a place I visited.
Instead it is a place that never leaves me.
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