At the top of a hill in Eastern Oregon,

miles from a town.

Only the glowing orange wheat fields

and the dirt road.

Wheat fields that expand

nearly to the horizon.

On the horizon,

where the land is fuzzy,

because of distance.

But there you can see

a small black stripe.

That ribbon of black is a road

and tiny trucks go by on it,

though they are few

and far between.

When the heavy breeze

is just right,

you can hear their motors.

Around you, all there is

in that place is a great,

wide feeling of stillness.

With secret possibilities

and endless opportunities.

You feel,

as though you could leap off

into anywhere in the world.

As if you are free,

and the entire world is a magical place

full of secrets that hold us

entwined in their nymph-like arms

and whisper their solutions to our hearts.

But most special of all

is the vastness.

Not the inky blackness

of a night sky.

Nor even

the horrendous roar

of a stadium full of uncountable people.

But of a still vastness,

and you feel small.

Very small, but essential.

As though, if you were not here

to experience that place and those things

then they would fade and cease to exist.

You feel as though these sensations are like

stars that would burn out without fuel,

without you.

You feel like that place,

that the cosmos needs you.

That they need you to be there

and you are filled

with an inexplicable feeling of quiet awe.

All you can do is smile

at that great fiery orange on the horizon

and look around you for a thousand years thinking,

"This is real pretty."