The clouds hung low, obscuring the mountain range and snow covered peaks. Streams ran crystal clear across the fields. Their gentle sound as they toppled over stones, around roots, towards some greater destiny the only noise as we stood beyond the gate, in the grass, gazing across the lands. My people came from farmers. Hot sun labor. Cold October preparations. March anticipation. I think of my Grand Uncle and the old tractor sitting beside the barn. There was a horse too, it was struck by lightning, there were no more horses after that.That legacy remains only in ink and tall tales now. So…… Here we are, on this field. Old stones and water and grass in this swale. All those grand accomplishments seem a misty memory as I stare at the clouds beginning to re-form, giving me a brief glimpse of my smallness as they effortlessly hide the mountain tops from my eyes.