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It sings to me as it radiates with fiery last-chance glory in the fall, then draws in one long-held breath through the winter, bearing layers of white boas as it weathers the quiet and dark.
I know what must eventually come, and yet spring is a shock of freshness, when, out of deadened branches, bursts buds of yellow and green. And then summer: practically sagging with abundance, dense to the tips with life and heat, basking in the reprieve before the next breath.
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