On a green hillside . . .

. . . in a vast meadowed valley, under the widespread shade of an ancient tree sits a little girl with two braided pigtails, in faded denim overalls with holes in the knees, three rocks in her left pocket, and bare feet coated in dust and dry grass. Sometimes she paces in a ring she's made in the grass beneath the tree. Other times she dances and sings, whooping and hollering, sending out waves of joy felt hundreds of miles away. There are times she sits against the tree and cries, often causing the sky to cry with her, great alligator tears. But much of the time she sits high in the branches of that tree, and watches the birds, studies the clouds, or scratches pictures in the bark with a rock. Tonight she is watching the vast heavens above her, naming the stars and watching the fireflies dance.

She is my inner five year old.