Sitting in solitude in a light rain, with a chill in the wind, finally, again, across an old prairie field, to the base of a hill, to be still, down an old abandoned road in a forest,  to a seat on a stone, to be alone,  to be in the wonder of Aspen glow, to be where no one-else is going to go, into a nature wild, with trees and rocks and the sky true blue, where everything is old, and where everything, always, feels new