I was wiping my streaming face with soaked
hands, as I kalumphed down the thawing farmer's road, the air mild, the fog low
lying upon the ground all about us, flowing past like a white elusive stream.
He dug after gophers and raced through puddles and we must have narrowly missed
a horse because there were the tracks, right there and fresh , as I shivered
with relief, looking across the broad expanse of sleeping fields , through the
woods to the river, all grey and powerful, not stopping for anyone.
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