Bag in hand; breathing in the Denver air
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Flying down the I-70 after two hours in the sky
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Windows rolled down; chill jazz playing from the little, red Jetta's speakers
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Her hand in mind; our fingers intertwined
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A constant 60 degree breeze blasting by as the far off peaks got larger and larger
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The mountains
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Butterflies in your stomach
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The sight really doesn't ever get old, especially given my MN blood
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They draw your gaze in and never let go
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The pictures do them so little justice