It’s a mist-shrouded day. Literally so—we’re at H.’s cabin near Glendale Springs off the Blue Ridge Parkway, and all drippy, almost cold, so green the green hurts, with wreaths of mist over all, wisps, whirls. I came in from a walk today to find each hair extruding from the combed mass of the whole beaded by tiny beads of water—the gray ones as though frosted.And we sad and discontent with each other's company.
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