Behind the tree line and nestled amongst the valleys, a hushed symphony plays - a metronome of nature, an untouched board long ago planed, a tuft of time slowed like honey dripping from the heavens, the sun dropped rain hopscotching on leaves in the forest.
These are the musicians of the south.
Like ghosts left behind to wander wild and grow up around abandoned home places, a legacy left as delicate as the creek of a rocking chair.
Can you smell the memories - the footprints left where no one can see?
It's like biscuits rolled and cut out by hand on grandmother's table - an impression digested and passed on.
When the notions of happiness entrap you, when the noise is too loud both inside and out, follow that thorned path deep into what's been left behind.
Find where the quiet lives.