I climbed up a long brown trunk of a fully blossom grown green tree.
Sitting on the wobbly branch, hearing a little crack,
I looked out over the land, smiling.
The sun was going down slowly,
Creating a golden yellow, orange, reddish pink tint to the big open scenery above.
It was was like looking at a painted canvas,
The hills were as tall as skyscrapers,
Emerald green grass,
Trees the size of Giants,
The noise of water rushing to get home,
Meadows filled with golden wheat whistling in the wind,
Animals running through the grass playing a game of hide 'n' seek as one pops his head out from behind a tree saying peek-a-boo.
I see a little house upon the hill,
It was white like freshly fallen snow,
With a roof as old and rickety as the man that lives next to me.
There's a nice little garden bed in front of it.
I look back up at the worlds canvas,
And wonder,
What will the world paint next?
