Children of the valley

 An old, deserted school bus came to rest in a valley deep within the forest, where once music and song echoed, and plumes of smoke gave the air a scent of pine. Footpaths once worn to dirt are overgrown with wildflowers, as discarded objects rust away hidden within the brush.

Broken glass jars that once held fireflies, and crudely carved pipes to pass around, can take you to a better place if you're lucky enough to find them.

You could walk as far as your legs would carry you and stop at a camp where you'd be invited to share whatever they had to offer. There were poets and guitars, flutes and harmonicas that filled the air, traveling as far as nature allowed, creating a symphony of music that flowed through the forest of mighty pines.

Time somehow dismantled the children of the flowers as the outside world broke up the camps, believing the devil or other satanic beings possessed them. They accused them of drug abuse and orgys and anything else they could think of to proclaim them freaks of nature who didn't belong within the pines. In reality, they were living their lives free from government rules and regulations, peacefully coexisting with each other in a place untouched by outsiders.

I still walk the footpaths looking for broken glass jars, hearing Stevie Nicks flowing through the trees and into my soul. But most of all, I remember the freedom and the love that touched us all in one way or another.

The old, rusty school bus is covered with vines and overgrowth, a reminder of my past as it slowly fades away into the pines, forgotten by some and remembered by others who will never let go of the memories and friendships carved out of the valley we loved.

Mike 2025