The landscape south of my village is so absent of hills that miles seperate my eyesight from the horizon. It's a flattened area, seemingly never-ending. And yet, it is impossibe to travel over. The river is so wide that the cottonwoods on the opposite bank look as small as victorian dollhouse ornaments. And once you reach the cottonwoods, the bank is so steep that it's virtually impossible to climb. And if, by some impossible chance, you find yourself atop that bank, you will take five steps and find yourself beside a lake or slough too wide to cross. In which, I can only admire such a place, with the sincerest curiousity of what it beholds, from the view outside my window.
