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Time passes. It does. Some days are dark and it’s hard to find the light. And then a flight takes you over the mountains to spend a few days with some of your family. There was a walk to see a nest of owls in a tree’s hollow, followed by a rest by the Whitemud River where the children floated sticks in sunlight.

The day before that, you went to see bison. Under a blue sky, they grazed on new grass, and you remembered the frieze of them in Font-de-Gaume in early November, the same slim hips, massive shoulders.

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