As a child in the valley, wonder was never very far.
There was a creek out in the front, a forest made up my back yard.
I've met animals out here I don't think I could forget,
without even paging through the legacy of family pets.
There's a heron who stops by a couple times a year
with a wing span so grand as he starts to disappear.
And the deer like to wander through every month or so,
a stag trotting on his own, or a mother with her doe.
Every summer evening, there's a natural symphony
of frogs and crickets in a choir with complicated synchrony.
Coyotes holler on the hill when the moon dares to show,
Then owls start a duet making art with dark echoes.
When the morning dawns and brings all my favorite colors back,
the night watch heads to bed, their feathered cousins pick up slack.
The tweets that I wake up to aren't on screen but up above.
A glee club of red-tailed hawks, blue jays, finches and wild doves.
Snakes and salamanders, crawdads and dragonflies,
raccoons and flying squirrels all scurry from your eyes.
If you wander through the sunny valley I like to call my home,
you can get far away from people, but you'll never be alone.