The only singer is the wren in the lilac, cycling through his entire repertoire at breakneck speed. A gray caterpillar inches up my leg.
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The only singer is the wren in the lilac, cycling through his entire repertoire at breakneck speed. A gray caterpillar inches up my leg.
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Love the contrast in speeds. That might be almost like light years in difference.
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But what I didn’t have room to say is that they were alike in persistence: as often as I flicked it off my knee to the edge of the porch, the caterpillar would start back, moving ever so slowly because of the cold (mid 50s).
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