Picture from Pixabay saddleroad

I grew up in the suburbs
Between the valleys of brown mountains
And rolling hills
Where the lakes remain unswum
And the poppies bloom every so often

On the dry winter days
Where the snow lays fresh on distant alps
Melting by the minute
By the sun which shines through morning dew
I reflect on this disposition

As a child
I thought nothing of this place
Only that I wanted to leave
one day
In search of mountains less fresh
Aching to explore metropolis
anywhere beyond these valleys

There is nothing here
No people
No opportunity
No light
Only the highways which cut across liminality
Blurring the lines between rural and something more

But
In my age
I look deeper
Searching this neighborhood for signs of my past
And for hopes of the future

There is something here

There always has been

There are stories here that have been told

And have always been told

They will continue to live out their lives

leaving
Traces
of what used to be

What are they?
What are they doing here?
Who are their stories?
How old are the tales that await to be captured?
Where are they?
I want to be part of that
To tell my own story of

relocations