Devon:

Boiled coldy across a well lit field of broken grass. She sits and waits for the wind to blow her hair across her eyes to give her a reason to break her gaze of the clouds. Her sweater smells of smoke and firewood. The mud that lines the heel of her boot crusts over and dries out as her feet fall beyond the shadows of the great will tree and basks in the sunlight. She forgot why she came by remember why she left. the ocean continually runs away from her as she settles in the european drift of her young twenties. there is a time and place for everything and that time has come and gone. and now her home, which at points seem to scare her away and trouble her eyes, simply misses her. She finishes her tea and wipes the flies from her nose. She knows that home is home and it is going nowhere. It is her rock of Gibraltar and it longs for her.