It's a short way from my house to the big pine at the meeting of two fences. It's a simple standing, looking into debris and straw where lady's slipper, jack-in-the-pulpit, trillium keep truthful comfort of the shade. I breathe in common with them, share their repose within the borders of a spring that exists only here and in my step, walking back, the air cold enough to hold me aloft, not a footmark showing in the snow.

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