My meaning of home have changed since then. Home sweet home where there is no roof to cover my head, but under the oak tree there is always a place for me, just me. Then ther are the brooks that run and ripple, they are all companions to me. They let me run and walk and fall and play and muddy, they silently tolerate my innocence for they all know I do not hurt, but they are hurt when I am silent. I walk along the path, I see an ant pulling a dragon fly, its consuming its strength, for the dry days ahead of it. For even the ant tell of such a tale that without hard work there is no living. Then I walk on and lie in the open lawn, its softness is even better than the comfort of the best feather pillow, the smell of soil and grass and water, they tell not of tiredness but of freshness. I continue to lay there till the sky is enveloped in darkness, or should I write that the owner spreads out a special black carpet with all diamonds scaterred all over her. Sometimes in symmetry other wise I arrange it the way I like it.I play with the stars too, they smile and twinkle and wink and they shoot to enthrall me when I am bored. But suddenly I feel there is a roof above me, this vast expanse, and I sleep there in perfect peace knowing that the darkness engulfs me and I am tightly wrapped within it, safe and sound, only to wake up to the call of an owl here and there. My home is this vast earth, as long as I am alive and then the heavens. Either way I am absoloutely comfortable and happy everafter.