Yesterday, I knocked a winter’s worth of crunchy leaves off the hammock and lay down. The thin filter of bare branches above me was enough to cool the weak winter sunlight, and as I rocked my skin chilled and warmed, chilled and warmed.
Just the simple word dogwood in the book I was reading sent me into a moment of full-body homesickness, a yearning for springtime in the Blue Ridge.
My cells remember, and look forward to the turning of the seasons, in this place or in that.
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