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     Snow was falling, not in great gusts of billowing white or stinging wet, this snow was different, as if every tiny flake followed its own course, drifting slowly down and then spiraling back up, not wanting to give up the gift of flight. Somersaulting, diving, playing hopscotch with the cedars, suspending in mid air as if drinking in the view, until settling down gently, joining millions of its tiny friends. Covering the meadow like a shimmering lake alive with light. All facing the tree. As if in anticipation.    

 

You can read a Prequel to "The Tree" here

 

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