I see mountains when I close my eyes. Snow articulates the texture of their peaks. They stretch on in ranges for miles, farmland interspersed. Roads trace meandering lines through the farms, which sit above and below like crooked teeth on the goofy grin of the highway.
I think this is too flowery, but as I flew over this view I couldn't help but form comparisons that sound like a third grade assignment.
I'm tired. I feel less than useful. It is wonderful here, but they have a lot of people who know what they're doing. I feel like Anne, knowing that Marilla wanted a boy.
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