My Town.

I wake up to a chilly November morning. Frost hugs the grass, running its icy fingers through the blades. I walk onto the porch, inhaling the crisp pre-winter air into my lungs. The outline of the mountains loom in the distance like a quiet giant, napping on a bed of dew. The sky looks like as if an artist had dripped pastel paints all over a blue easel, letting the light pinks and purples swirl together to create a spectacular scene. Overhead, a jet roars silently through the air, leaving behind a trail of white. The lazy sun rises over the gently rolling hills and winks at the golden…