My place is on the edge of the Santa Fe National Forest. I grew up back east, large trees and lush landscapes are the norm. There was always water and always grass.

In New Mexico this is not the norm; many places are water insecure, dry, and lifeless the consequences of development. The grass is sharp, cutting your legs as you travel.

I relish spots that have trees, grass, and little hollers and hills like where I used to roam when I was young. This spot is one of those little places in New Mexico which reminds me of home.

Just a little place on the edge of a road many would overlook, this is my place. The wooden crossing is just a jumble of logs while the stream has been polluted by the refuse of people who don’t care and who don’t see the beauty of this hidden place. At this time of the year the aspen and cottonwood trees turn golden in the deep green sea of pines.

Posing I could hear the calming ripple of the stream in front of me and beside me the rustle of a snake caught in a short glimpse.

This place is alive.