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4 S N O W G E E S E Their honking and trumpeting precede them through the canopy of leafless trees and pine branches. We look up to see white feathers—Oh roundness of heavy bodies exultant in air! We watch the wedge drive over the woods, streaming slowly, one by one—a flurry of black wing tips that stroke against the clouds. Before the notes of their throats fade, we bathe in the shower of their praise—then snow begins to drift into the silence of their passage. ...

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