I once stumbled upon a meadow that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale. The noises, scents, and tastes were incredible. The sky over the meadow provided a visual feast. It extended as far as the eye could see in a cocktail-blue dome punctuated by fluffy clouds. In a dance of life and death, squeaking swallows pursued whirring dragonflies. A neon-blue river raced through the meadow’s heart. As I approached, a flock of yolk-yellow ducklings scattered from beneath my feet, crashing into the water. The river sang softly as it plinked and tinkled across the gravel bank. Above the sound of the river, the melody of the meadow filled my ears: the dawn chorus, buzzing midges, and the wind whispering. I could smell the cherry blossoms’ sweetness and the gentle caramel perfume of flowers in the air. It was so relaxing that I leaned my head on a mossy rock and dozed off. As I walked home, the first stars began to appear in the night sky. They appeared to have been tossed into the air and caught by a black blanket. I swore I would return to this meadow, a sliver of lost heaven, someday.