country living

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Home is the smell of a linen closet,  with its never ending array of  canvased colors consisting of  extra bedding for the unexpected  sleepovers. Home is the bruised hardwood floors
Through the frosty window, in crisp air and a silent sea of white I see the tiptoe of a fox, bright as a burning ember My breath snatched, I stare— dark eyes Then I see the mounds, scattered—
Consider the fog that settles beneath me The underneaths of the narrow bridges They trap the mist around my skin The breeze cools me as it feathers throughout the air  
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