The Valley

I pull up, clutching my chest
as fire sears my lungs
in short, ragged breaths.

Before me lays a scene of
indescribable beauty, a scene
most people merely hope to see
before they reach their deaths.

I double, retching, fighting for
air as my body empties itself
upon the ground.

Only then, stomach settled,
lungs filling slowly with oxygen,
do I appreciate what I have found.

Winding lazily through a forest of pines,
a stream feeds a river,
the river feeds a lake.

As I watch, a strong northern wind
blows through the trees, leaving only
the distant cawing of birds in it's wake.

The sun sits low behind
distant mountains, glaring
across the valley at me
on the cliffs where I stand.

In the distance, a band of horses
runs through the stream: wild, free;
their flesh unmarred by brand.

I close my eyes, and I am with them,
roaming where heart and
hoof take me, subject to none.

Yet too soon my eyes are open,
the vision fading faster than
the setting sun.

I could find no words, and thanked this
place with a solitary tear.

But it was not the river, nor the wind,
nor the trees that replied.

As the sun hid itself from view, the
gunshot rang out, echoing for all to hear.

And I found comfort in the simple fact
that I had seen this place before I died.