When I was a child there was a special place I sat in a mindless state. I felt the sun on my skin warming it like toast, felt the gentlest breeze play in my golden hair. Often I heard the buzz of gossamer wings as a sturdy blue dragonfly hovered above the quiet surface of “my” pond. My grandmother had created it from an upturned lid she placed under a dripping spigot. Water seeped evenly over its round edges moistening the ground where spearmint thrived. The heavenly scent was respite for a child who spent her childhood on gray military bases where metal, oil, and booming sounds crowded out life generating forces.
The pond sat below a rolling shoulder of red earth and green grasses. It was mowed neatly by my grandfather who maintained his farm with rigor and pride. It pitched toward a view of a valley, far down to Aunt Kate’s white house and red barn. Around the edge of the valley, rolling emerald hills met a steel track that brought the howling sound of a steam engine several times a day.
Each year my parents brought us back to my grandparents small farm in Tennessee, in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains. Each year my sisters and I filled up with life forces and then flew off to places far and wide inflated by the little things that nourished us on that sacred ground.
Susan Feathers 
Thank God for that place of respite I can travel to anytime in my mind. Turns out that little thing was huge.
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What a lovely picture, and I can hear the trickling water and the dragonfly.
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