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Imagine if you would, a meadow rising gently to the west rudely interrupted
by a depleted gravel pit.  It is February and the snow lies deep, the ambient
temperature warms to forty above while an east wind adds a sufficient chill
to remind one that winter is not yet done.  The sun, from a clear blue sky
declines to the southern horizon, its parallel rays striking the smooth
contours of this unnatural bowl.   Pioneer poplars at its center grow and
there nestled among the branches thirty-six mourning doves luxuriate,
beneficiaries of man's exploitation now transfigured by laws of physics into
a natural hyperbolic dish.  (West Rutland Marsh monitoring walk, Thursday,
February 20, 2003.)


Cheers,
Roy Pilcher,
Proctor, Vermont

Speaking the Same Language.