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Under the slate gray sky, even the lesser summits are draped in white. Winter has left his bower behind the high peaks and is edging into the hills and my consciousness. A brisk northwest breeze smells of dirt, leaves, and frost. The zephyr tugs at my collar sending tremors into that space where revered memories await the resonance of time and circumstance. The breeze sighs snow. I lose focus and the barren scene around me blurs. How many Falls have I stood in barren spaces of alpine tundra or rocky ridges and felt this melancholy passage of seasons and life? In a few weeks I’ll be courting youth on tropical shores and awaiting a spring that may never come. But here, on this rocky pinnacle, I am still alive.

Francis Flavin

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