There’s a yellow barn on the side of a hill I drive by several times a week, whizzing by it, and it’s always just another node in a chain of…

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Must be cabin fever

It's a gray day in January, and I'm thinking about the fine perfect details of the beech leaves still hanging in the trees in the woods. And I'm thinking about the thousand-year-old bristlecone pine trees holding tightly to a certain cliff I know and have visited so many times in Southern Utah; and I'm watching a fire burning in the woodstove. Dead trees warm me.

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