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Death’s Tap
Frost makes frozen confection of the lawn while ice forms– too soon–upon the pond with angled etchings of broken twigs, mirroring the season to come… The dock is slippery when I cross so I proceed...
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that time in August…
Our oldest’s birthday has always marked the shift in seasons. The rain comes, as it did yesterday, and then suddenly autumn whispers. The breeze at the pond is too much for adults to swim, and the boys...
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