The House With A View

     I’ve only lived here for a year but my neighborhood fills me with a sense of nostalgic peace.  I live on a quiet street, set against Frog Mortar Creek.  Across the vast creek, through the bare branched trees, I can see the runway at Martin’s Airport.  The planes look like Matchbox toys and every so often, one departs, lifting into the air with ease.  As I sit on my rain splattered porch, I watch a plump grey bird pecking at the fruit of a holly tree.  Next door, my teenage neighbor Adam works ardently in his shed, fixing the engine of his ATV.  Adam’s mother, Patrice, arrives home and as she waves to me, I breathe in the fresh air and wave back.  As I take in the serenity of my little neighborhood, I think of the saying: Home Sweet Home.



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