The air was fresh and crisp, and the snow-capped mountains loomed in the distance, sprays of green pine trees stretching down their sides. The deep-blue sky loomed overhead, despite the downpour, not yet forty minutes before. We were in Colorado.

The sun shone through the lush, green pine branches that arched above our dirt path. Our horses trotted along, heavy hooves kicking up dust into the air as they went. They would stop every now and then to curiously sniff at the patches of wildflowers that cradled the road. The rhythmic shuffling of hoofbeats and the enthusiastic chirping of birds was pleasant background noise as our guide led us out of the tunnel of trees and into a grassy plain. We rode on, momentarily mesmerized by the view, the distant mountain snow glittering like millions of tiny pearls catching the sun. Huge swaths of yellow and purple wildflowers speckled the long prairie grass, gently swaying and curling to the occasional breeze. 

I let my eyes drift closed and inhaled deeply.  The cool mountain air, rich with the scent of  wildflowers, felt like a revelation.

 I opened my eyes. The birds chirped, and the sunshine was warm on my cheeks. I wished I could stay there, forever.