Butte

A beautiful thing, the blanket from the end of my bed, sneaking out the back door, down the trail through the woods and right on the old logging road. That flat-topped hill they'd built was steep-edged, and the sides were thick with scot's broom, but the top was covered with wild grass, and there I'd spread the blanket. Above the pond, above sight of the road should any stray walker pass, alone in the sunshine breathing beautiful air. Even with treetops and so close to home, a space completely and wonderfully outside of time.