I've lived most of me life in a corner house in the city of Carson, where my backyard.
was three quarters cement and the other quarter was the pool. There was the occasional.
.
planter with wilted flowers and the tree in a small little corner by the pool. When I looked .
up the telephone wires covered the sky and for miles in every direction were dense .
amounts of buildings. Then as sweet as an answered prayer, I moved four years ago to a .
house with an untended, neglected backyard, which would later be my sanctuary.
When I moved into this house it was not the most beautiful house at first, but soon the .
dirt turned to grass and the stick trees flourished with leaves. Within my backyard are two .
levels: plateau in top and a small canyon below. In this canyon grows the greenest, softest .
grass that even smells sweet when it is freshly cut. When the wind blows through the .
blades, different shades of green light up the ground, as they resemble ocean waves. To .
compliment the grass are the bursting, overbearing trees that floods my eyes. As the wind .
blows in the trees, the sound of the leaves dancing with their branches is completely .
captivates my ears.
After the wind blows through the trees the birds start singing their song as though the .
wind calls them to come out and play. The birds play in the wind until their blue sky turns .
to orange sherbet and the clouds turn into cotton candy: my sunset. This is quite possibly .
the climax of any day, but especially in my backyard. My sunset unwinds the deepest part .
of my soul as slowly as it sets, releasing all the colors it has kept throughout the day, in .
one huge burst of colors, slowly letting down a black curtain full on glittering stars. .
After such an exasperating moment of the sun setting everything pauses in awe, and I .
wonder how everyday it never looks the same, the originality boggles my mind. After I .
catch up with my thoughts, the nightingales begin to sing their lullaby that slips me into a .
