- The fragrance that rises from Yarrow as I pinch it between my fingers.
- Duckling fuzz against my cupped hands.
- The high-pitched jingling of Cedar Waxwings overhead.
- Bits of dried mud making my floors dirty soon after a recent mopping. This means I am living.
- “I think I’ll write a poem about you,” I call out to the right half of the couple coming toward me on the path. “On the trail in a red dress!” She laughs. They both laugh. “We’re off to a wedding,” she says.
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