My horizon

I grew up with fields as my horizon. When winter came, I would wander in the field, trying to make it to the little wood that separated two sections. But that wood was scary: there was a rumour that a man had hanged himself there. Still, we would leave, with snowshoes and cookies, and try to make it past the wood, into the other field, and then the other, and the other. We never got really far.

When snow would start, I'd walk in the middle of the field, and lie there, getting drunk on the power of the winds and the snowflakes on my face. It's honestly the only thing I miss about that place that was home for 18 years: the storms.