Sunlight filtering through the trees, autumn leaves blowing in the breeze. Crunchy snow underfoot, spring grasses poking up. These are all special things about my secret spot. I go there to be alone. Not even my dog, a lovable thing, or my best friend know about it. I get there by running down the yard, turning left, cautiously entering the alder grove, making sure nobody saw. I turn, going in the dense, green, thick, beautiful woods. Walking along the never-used trail, roots sticking up; I memorized the way. I go past that arch of a tree, not turning to the well-worn path -- past it all. A little farther, almost there, turn walk turn -- THERE!

A huge alcove, surrounded by trees, sunlight filtering through. A thick carpet of jewel weed and moss, the sun is hitting it just right so it shines. I scurry up the slanted tree, stand, and look out at the crystal bay and purple mountains spreading out their icy gowns.

Once I heard a chirping in a nearby tree. A nest of baby robins! I sat there for who knows how long, and momma robin came home, a worm in her beak, chirping furiously. I backed down. I went there every day after that, from a distance, watching them grow. One day they just picked up and left.

I dig into a good book there. "Tom Sawyer" brings me to a wild land and "Number The Stars" to World War II. I imagine the trees are Germans in Denmark. I go through troubles there, confiding with the grasses. Even in the winter, I find diamonds in the snow that are special to me.

My secret spot is like a wonderful friend. Never gets mad, never leaves. Yes, best friend I ever had.