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68 How We Walk Though the snow won’t go and the ice takes a bite, he walks me daily. We stalk our urban pond, city buildings at one shoulder and gentle waters at the other. We walk and talk of work, laugh about the kids, then get to the business of money. Money this and money that, enough and we’ll be OK, and money, money, money, until he cries “Look! Mink!” Two mink, black and burnished against the white, frozen pond, leaping straight up and out, taking turns in hot pursuit through crusted snow. We run to the melting edge to watch them tumble, bouncing, across a thin sheet of ice so bright our eyes smart and strain. They vanish at the island’s edge. We walk on, amazed, full of joy. We talk of mink tracks, ice and (a little) about money. His eye saves me, brings me beauty daily, spots the tracks, the eggshell, the eagle as it passes, something of wonder every day. We walk this way. ...

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