by L Lindsay
The late afternoon sun beats down, but cannot penetrate the thick canopy of the sprawling oak tree under whose lower branches I sit gazing out across the meadow. In the distance, the creek, low this time of year, bubbles gently against slick stones as it winds west. Buried in the soft soil under a thick root is a pint mason jar that contains a collection of rocks, acorns, a bluejay feather, and a small abandoned wasp's nest. I come here often to admire my treasures, or add a new one. The air is still, and thick. It wraps itself around me like a second skin leaving a sticky residue of sweat in its wake. Every breath is laden with the scent of rich, loamy soil and sweet honeysuckle growing wild on the vine. This is my secret place, my thinking spot. The place I while away long summer hours daydreaming and planning all my tomorrows. The place to which I am irrevocably transported everytime I smell the heady scent of freshly turned earth.