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37 R O A R I N G FA L L S : M I D - M A R C H The stream rushes in sunlight and a smell of decay rises through mist that blows across drifted banks of snow. Hiking the mountain to the falls, I pause, listen to water flowing over stones. A white birch trunk revolves in the rhythm of an eddy in the basin below, the roar of plunging water patterned within ripples of the pool, within rings of the tree itself; and here it’s refoliated— the spray of the falls, melting, refreezing— along its branches, the clear icy leaves. ...

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