Diana Gabaldon. Stranger (№ 395265)

Sharp forest smell tickled his throat. I've been on some of the hills and breathed the same spring scents, but then they mingled with the stink of exhaust gas coming from the road, and the chirping of birds was played to drown out the voices of tourists. When was the last time I raised this here trail, the ground was littered with sandwich wrappers and empty packs of cigarettes, not the blossoming buds of hollyhocks and flowers of violets. Wrappers from sandwiches seemed quite reasonable fee for such blessings of civilization as, say, antibiotics and phone, but now I felt gratitude to the violets. I really needed the peace and quiet, and I felt them.