A gentle breeze carries the sweet scent of apricot trees. Migrating workers give their hands tending a farmers land. The sun smiles down on me as I drive through this sleepy town of mine. Born and raised to believe all that I needed would be here for me. A church every here and there.
Ladies gather about town.
Mothers stroll with their babies. As I wonder what keeps me here. Among prairie fields the San Joaquin river flows sparkling and lazy to the eye with an undercurrent so swift it will take you by surprise. Against a backdrop of yellows blues and purple, the mountains of the Diablo Range will take your breath away, and leave you to reflect and ponder of sunsets every day. Lost Five miles to the west thirty miles to the north, the road on which I drive conforms to the landscape.