A winding road leads the way
Rolling hills in the distance, dotted with tiny houses
An air of tranquility
The warm sun beats down
Stirring up winking patterns of diamonds on the barely rippling water
Warm stone, rough underfoot, a path of small wet footprints, slowly fading
The soft rustling of bushes as lizards sunning themselves retreat, seeking cover
A house, rising among untamed grasses
Dusty stone and dark wood
Smooth and cool to the touch
The smell of the wild grape vines, bitter but sweet
Winding their way around the doorframe, twisting and intertwined
The sound of the wind as it whistles through the olive tress
A swishing sound, the single thing that disturbs the silence
A winding road leads away.
