Another perfect morning. A wood thrush is singing next to the springhouse. The surrealism of it all when distilled into memory come December.
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Another perfect morning. A wood thrush is singing next to the springhouse. The surrealism of it all when distilled into memory come December.
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Yes! Remembering the smells, the sound, the light. And no mosquitos.
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Yes, that’s the great thing about memories! No skeeters. (Unless they were so horrific, that’s ALL I remember.)