The Mountain Home

I hear the soft pitter-patter

of rain threading through the trees,

a quiet rhythm stitched in green,

a song carried on the breeze.

Birds answer in scattered melodies,

each note a different hue—

chirps and trills and whispered calls,

a wild and living tune.

This is home now.

Far from the restless honking roads,

the sharp pulse of the street,

I’ve traded noise for something whole—

for something calm and deep.

A nearby stream rushes gently,

like time that doesn’t rush at all,

and in the night, the coyotes sing,

while a wise old owl calls, who?

Peace settles in my chest here,

in ways I never knew—

a stillness that feels like belonging,

a quiet that feels like truth.

It sounds like camping memories,

like sunscreen, salt, and sun,

like children laughing in the waves,

like long, bright days undone.

It’s paddles dipping morning glass,

breaking silence, soft and slow,

a loon’s call echoing through dawn,

a lonely, haunting glow.

And in all these gentle moments,

in every breath I take,

I find a life I never knew

my heart was meant to make.

This is the best life—

this quiet, wild, and free.