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By Robin S. Chapman / January 13, 1999

Dear Ones -I dream of houses that go on and on, one room opening into another, the windows opening on sandy beaches, lava islands, the sea's perimeter - wake to the neighborhood crows' loud calling to each other, brown earth strewn with the debris of winter, cardinals in the arbor- vitae, reports that the sandhill cranes are back, the blackbirds singing in the marsh. Earlier than we ever remember the ice is gone; under our winter skies the lakes lie, open water.

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