Picturette scene, mountains reaching off the ground peaking, trying to touch a little bit of glory from the sky for themselves.
Green meadows, violet and fuschia flowers blossoming for miles and miles.
I knew that this place had a magic to it called, nature.
Nature dripping off this place, for all I could see was thriving organisms, no death, no destruction.
I desperately wanted to grab my notebook and jot down a few notes and observations of the gorgeous place.
I walked around a bit, trying to absorb everything in, piece by piece.
I looked over to my left and there was my father, the man who taught me how to appreciate nature.
When I walked over to him he was taking pictures on his ever so fancy photographer camera. (Sorry I don’t know what it is called.)
I had always respected my dad.
But now looking at him snapping away on his camera I started to respect him even more.
Not because he was tall and demanding, but he took the time to get the perfect picture.
That’s why I respected him, his focus and his attentiveness were that of a camera lens.
He had the patience that I didn’t.
That’s my daddy, the Dreamer.