Song

When we came home across the hill
No leaves were fallen from the trees;
The gentle fingers of the breeze
Had torn no quivering cobweb down.
The hedgerow bloomed with flowers still,
No withered petals lay beneath;
But the wild roses in your wreath
Were faded, and the leaves were brown.

T.S. Eliot

 

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Things change.

(Not trying to be mysterious. Just it is the letting go of yet another layer, another set of assumptions…all is fine and good.)

Crescent Beach is a good place to go have a sit and watch the birds.

 

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