© 2017 by D. M Almond's Gnome Brigade. (because they have nothing better to do than cater to our readers)

May 1, 2017

September 1, 2016

November 29, 2015

June 16, 2015

June 9, 2015

May 24, 2015

Please reload

Recent Posts

Dawn of an Era

May 3, 2015

1/2
Please reload

Featured Posts

Goodbye Vermont

August 12, 2014

 

 

While there are so many things I can go the rest of my life without, tonight I cherish those I will miss. Standing outside, I am staring up at the moon, full and inviting, like nature's lamp lighting up the fields around my house, casting long shadows of trees that make the landscape at once both mysterious and wonderful. I will miss stars, oh blessed beautiful stars, covering the night sky in a way you have never seen, like a dense blanket of worlds singing their chorus from above. Little blinking orbs remind me that we live in an infinite universe constantly expanding and surrounding us from all angles with the possibility of being. I will miss nights like this where the winds blow like nature's caress across my skin, warm and alluring, begging me to stay outside all night and watch as the land rejoices creation. I almost expect to see little fairies dancing under the moonlight with crystal umbrellas, giggling for me to join them in their merriment. The wind carries their laughs. It also carries the rustling of leaves from the enormous swaying boughs of the trees that dot the rolling hillside. I will miss the rustle of the leaves. Some nights here a thick fog rolls in from the mountain range behind the house. Thick white tendrils of it come over the peaks and cascade like probing fingertips down through the dense forest, acres away. It sits at the base of the mountains, building like a witch's stew until finally the fog grows brave enough to make its way up the hillside toward the house, like some long lost sleeping beast that suddenly needs to move. It is almost mystical and not the least bit frightening, though I often do try and picture an army of undead soldiers marching under its cover into battle for some ancient war they've already lost, a myriad of skeleton hands clutching rusty swords and withered oaken shields. As they pass by the porch the warriors will undoubtedly tip their war torn helmets at me for creating them in the first place. I will miss nights like this in Vermont. I will cherish them forever.

 

Share on Facebook
Share on Twitter
Please reload

Follow Us
Please reload

Search By Tags
Please reload

Archive
  • Facebook Basic Square
  • Twitter Basic Square