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“Let us go in; the fog is rising.” Emily Dickinson
2007.11.23
When we started down the path we could barely see the water.
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When we started down the path we could barely see the water.
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The water is beyond—
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The water is beyond—
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In time we spotted ducks—
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In time we spotted ducks—
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The orange leaves pulsated against the backdrop of fog.
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The orange leaves pulsated against the backdrop of fog.
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At about this point we decided to leave the path and go down to the river.
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At about this point we decided to leave the path and go down to the river.
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On the way down to the river.
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On the way down to the river.
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No path—just the river and lots of exposed roots.
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No path—just the river and lots of exposed roots.
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Here the fog dropped down on the water—
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Here the fog dropped down on the water—
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I was mesmerized by the lines.
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I was mesmerized by the lines.
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The leaves disappeared leaving inked lines.
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The leaves disappeared leaving inked lines.
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Back on the path . I liked the way these two men sat looking at the water. So many questions to ask —but I am just passing by.
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Back on the path . I liked the way these two men sat looking at the water. So many questions to ask —but I am just passing by.
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If you do something several years in a row it's apt to become a tradition. Our walk on Thanksgiving is now a tradition.
This year we started around the pond and then decided to leave the path and head down to the river. There was no path, but the river was our guide over exposed roots and wet autumn leaves.
Fog encased the pond, lifting and settling, lifting and settling. What an ethereal gift.