The Air Is Clear.

Light shines through leaves of trees, which smell like fresh breath. New dirt, combed free of rocks and sticks, lay ’neath my feet on the trail. A small breeze grabs the smell of wood chips and sweeps it up to my nose.

I grin.

Here, far from the town, the air is clear, and the sky a sharp shade of blue. My eyes ache as I gaze at it.

To the south, and east, a stream burst forth, pushed on by snow on high peaks, now melt and silt from Spring’s warm kiss.

It was loud. I could hear it from where I stood.