Something about a mountain stream, how with crooked path it weaves a string of green foliage through a wooded hillside, how with babbling sound it pacifies those who walk by it, how it patiently wears down a rock over centuries.
Something about a pasture dotted with spring calves, feeding feverishly, jumping jubilantly, napping and noshing in bucolic and verdant glory.
Something about weathered wood on falling-down barns, combined with rusty tin, pierced with blackberry vines.
Something about hand-built church steeples, pointing heavenward, topped with white crosses, sheltering old, rusty bells, atop weather-boarded churches with pointed, purple glass windows, painted white like clouds.
Something about the color of cabbage lined in rows in freshly hoed gardens planted beside creek beds near small white houses at the foot of wooded ridges.
Something about the field full of hay, newly bailed, with Queen Ann’s Lace in the clump of weeds by the old, rusty gate.
Something about the sound of gleeful children running around the yard, swinging under the tree, and chasing the cat out of the sandbox.
Something about the sun’s warmth combined with a cool breeze on a late spring morning on bare skin.