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In
a bitterly cold wind, children's play ground is deserted (the stone turtle
and frog are left alone to themselves); there are no butterflies or
hummingbirds in the butterfly and hummingbird garden; only a couple of swans,
wings blown to the full, look like small sailboats parked on a violent
water while a thin water freezes itself on a bridge (freeze protects, too,
just as fever or madness does); and the first winter snow, like salt,
falling on a wounded landscape (from ecological burns), feels more painful.
I
want a miracle. I set out to look for mink along a creek - I haven't seen a
mink yet in Ann Arbor. People say it's more likely to find them on cloudy
days.
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