Every morning, the sound of roosters.

  Looking out over a patchy golden and green landscape of yellow grain and spotted with the dark silhouette of cows.

  Walking down an old dusty road, not used for anything but tractors and horse-back-riding for as long as you've been alive.

  That rushing feeling of sprinting down it, feeling your feet hit the earth and shake it, feeling unstoppable.

  Six-stringed guitars and callused fingers, sweetened ice tea and the smell of saddle polish.

  This is the beauty of the south.

  And there are things about that south that aren't so beautiful.

  There are bigots and racists.

  But there are also good neighbors and beautiful sunrises.

  The pounding of horse hooves on pack dry earth, a well-trodden trail leading to the troughs from the pasture.

  A creaky old barn with doors that squeak when they swing open.

  An old owl sitting in the corner, watching me through a harsh amber eye.

  The joys of the harvest, pumpkin pie from scratch, humming hymns, and fresh corn on the cob.

  Hearing your uncle chop wood in the backyard for the fireplace.

  Swimming in the river with the other kids, jumping off a small cliff into a lake below.

  Chasing a flock of sheep down old paths and herding cows on horse-back.

  Crouching in the brush with a rifle, preparing to shoot a rabbit or a deer. No need for boots, we'll go barefoot. Hiking with friends, no supervision needed.

  "We'll be back by supper, Auntie!"

  The beauty of the South, of the country.

  It's the community and experiences.

  It's the family and friends.

  Nothing more, nothing less.

  And it is perfect.