I find solitude next to the frozen creek in my snowey backyard. There's a small grove of alders that hover within eachother's branches. They create a sort of tent from the outside. So I crawl within them, a vintage book in hand, and sit down nestled in their twigs. It's quiet now that the river isn't flowing. Every once in a while a small bird will tweet, a rabbit skitter, or a squirrel named Chipper will chatter. Other than that though, I am left in silence to delve into my storybook. There's something about reading in nature. The open air helps transport you to the read image. It's nipping chill sends your imagination on a trip. Sometimes I find myself so lost within the pages of a book and the branches of the alder that I can barely find my way out. I stay wondering for hours in one small spot. It's a nice lost though, a happy little adventure. And I go back there only with the intent to get lost again.
