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Michelle Field turned
into a sea salt frying pan overnight. On my way to school this morning, my
steps slipped on the bridge, and the river concealed itself behind a fog. Low
bushes wrapped up in ice crystals wandered about in the Arb
like ghosts in white cloak wandering the cemetery in moonlight. (Just
yesterday, I was amazed by how freshly green the leaves of honeysuckles and
buckthorns still were under the evening sun. I was surprised by myself too -
I ran all the way to route 23 without stopping.) It feels like I may need a
warmer coat for this coming winter. But I don't feel its color yet. |
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