It seems that no matter where I look, there are children. There is an older boy reading a book and, no doubt, immersing him self in a fantasy world of swashbuckling, treasure and sailing the high seas. There are a number of children here. There is a little girl; no more than three years old, admiring Christmas lights that are hanging very delicately on a tall green tree. I see two more children playing a game of Battleship and becoming more and more excited with each hit, and disappointed with each miss. It’s bright here, but then it always is unless the sun has gone down. The loud whistle of a train passing through overpowers the sounds of singing birds that have not yet flown south. Looking through the windows, all that is to be seen are signs of the season. No green leaves on the trees only bare branches with an occasional bird nest built close to the top. No sea of green grass but rather a thick white blanket that oddly looks soft and comforting. The chimneys of the snow-covered houses emit plumes of white smoke from a cozy fire surely being enjoyed by someone inside. It gives off the wonderful smell of burning wood; a smell that let’s you know that it is winter. A Beagle is running, stopping and sniffing, in search of a treasure, presumably buried some time ago. It’s almost as if there is a magnet on it’s nose and one in the ground judging by how abruptly it stops. The silence here is constantly broken by laughter, arguments and the sounds of footsteps running here and there, back and forth. Silence is a rare commodity here. It’s good to be home.
