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July 2018, vol 14 no 2

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Steve Andrews

Spring Picnic

Each year, when winter loosened its grip on her life, she always wanted to celebrate by going on a picnic. Last year, after her diagnosis, the picnic consisted only of a short hike through a meadow just after dawn. I carried our dented old coffee thermos. An orange bulged in each of her jacket pockets. We stopped to rest every few minutes as she listened to the symphony of red-winged blackbirds, robins and cardinals.

ice mirrors . . .
reflections of sunlight
on the muddy path


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