The hills of the old country glistened silver-grey underneath the morning mist.
Rolling high and then low in the distance, like the backs of monster legends of the past.
Retiring underneath the rising sun.
And the scene welcomed him home.
Like it knew that he had begun to wilt as soon as he’d left all of those years ago.
That he had ripped himself from the roots that raised him.
And as he stood, over looking the familiar path home, tree leaves rustled and hushed.
Branches swayed and creaked – bending in the breeze.
Telling their stories of when he was a boy.