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125 By March nothing terrible had happened. Only clouds, wind, stone, sometimes a distant engine before the others were up. Mud underfoot seems a little firmer this time around, the breeze a long quotation. Shifting banks of words rise like steam in darkness or under water. Miles from the nearest whatever, at the very moment description advances into daylight, yellowing wood from a recent overhaul disappears over the ridge. But by then a fence was falling or women had dismantled it. Just seconds ago in the new climate, rain so dense it took my breath. All arrivals postponed, no one has been back here since. Latest reports show that months are slowing down a little more each year. Another cool day tomorrow with morning frost along the road. I’m always the last to know but I hear it’s closed— the river, the forest, this way. FORWARD BARBARA CLAIRE FREEMAN ...

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