I stood at the side of my house in the silence of the late evening, gazing out to
the far western horizon beyond the river valley. The air was soft and mild, the
breeze a mere zephyr. What little cloud stood above the hills was thin, drawn
in rough strokes, and painted orange by the sun’s wake. The sky above was clear
and blue in all directions. And I spoke out loud, saying ‘This is the perfect
evening. How many more, I wonder.’
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