I am angry at the people on the bus, staring at laps or magazines or giant i-pods. I want to hurl myself at them, fiercely, snap their necks around to stare out, out of the smudged window and at the beauty of the island. The early morning sun shafting down through silky clouds, water glittering as herons stalk through the wavelets by the pebbled shore, their long beaks sipping the surface. The islands shrouded with mist looming up and out of the water, heading for the sky.
I am in awe of the beauty of this place, of my home. I can feel my blood stirring, murmuring, my lungs are happier here, my heart beats to the waves, my legs languid on this soil.

I do not know if i will always live here, but wherever i am, my blood will always be calling out for this place. The rocks and sky and towering trees. The smell of blackberries and salt, woodsmoke and fog and dead seaweed. Pine needles and the crunch of maple leaves under my feet in autumn.