Nine hours of sleep, the country works its magic on tightly wound New Yorkers, the saying is quiet like the grave but perhaps it's more quiet like peace. A spring brook runs past the house, only for these few weeks when the desert is green, the sounds of swirling water, the sounds of returning life, I am mesmerized for hours watching it play. Soon it will be gone again. The chickens look at me, trying to gauge if I am a bringer of treats.
I'm here full of questions again, myself.
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