First vacation

We wake to a mist that clouds the river road, hovers over a field of soft-spun spiders' nests. Blackbirds beat and skirt the trees, collect in kite-tailed flutters and streak over hay bales spread out in dry fields like small matchboxes burning the mist into a gold blaze. A ghost moon trails us into the mountains, rises with us through yellow aspen. White faces of cows flash through forest walls. And everywhere the trees bend down whispering.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

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