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Still plunging timelessly through the sky, Sarah prepared to pull the rip
cord, convinced the back-up parachute would not support her either, and that
her body would soon be smashed against the earth or impaled upon a tree.
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A
boy named Jack delivered my mail. He was the only person who came up to my
nest at the top of my tree on a regular basis. I looked forward to his
visits, however brief they might be. He was easy and plain spoken, his face
so polished it looked rubbed raw.
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The wind barrels down the mountain like an avalanche. It raids these
houses and roads like a bandit, rummaging through our yards, scattering the
order we have raked our lives into. It summons us to our doors and windows
to see if someone is tapping on the glass -- but it is only a swirling void
waving the arms of trees against the houses. If you step outside, it washes
about you, tangling your hair, breathing on your skin, and somehow reaching
inside you -- like Nostalgia -- and holding your breath won't stop it.
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Perhaps this young man from the harsh desert was happiest of all when he took
refuge under a certain cherry tree, spreading his cloak in her shade, there
reposing to read books of science and philosophy until his eyelids closed
gently over the tired orbs and he could snooze away an hour under the
caressing
branches.
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