it’s almost Spring and the warm moistness of the morning brings in the paper all by itself. There are buds on the bare trees which hold a promise of color and the cat that runs across my deck nightly has gone to the Bahamas. No one can remember a winter with so much rain. The children are still damp from pressing themselves against the windows. Anything could happen or nothing and that would be fine.All you have to do is sit in the chair of evening and sip your sweet wine and think only of the cry of the lovebirds in the bush in your garden: their breasts plump and thrusting with hope.
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