Okay. More snow. And more shoveling. But I thought I was such a good girl, shoveling all that snow and what do I get as a reward? Pummeled by balls of snow and ice from the heavens . . . wait. . . or was it the squirrel in our maple tree that was pummeling me?
or the wind blowing back across the arms of all the trees that shaded and protected our home. the snow would pile up and be precarious in its stance, as a high wire act sans net. of course, the slightest blow would overturn the fine tune of design and purpose, only to collapse in a heap to become another.
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