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The Bones of a Dying World

What a grim title this post has, eh?  Don't worry, though - it is actually a narrative of  hope.  My house is an older, rustic cabin that sits quaintly atop a small grassy knoll nestled in a mountain valley higher up in the Appalachian Mountains.  I have four seasons here: icy winters where the tree limbs go bare and the ground freezes, sprintimes when the wisteria blooms infuse the entire valley with their fragrance, hot, humid summers where a lot of our time is spent wading and kayaking the river that runs down through the mountains, and beautiful orange/crimson/teal autumns that bring sleepy afternoons and hands warmed over campfires. I live a blessed life.  And it's from here that I write this:  from here, looking out over my mountain valley and the calm, serene quiet that enfolds me, I sit and know that outside my window there are the bones of a dying world.   It seems macabre to think of it this way. And yet, it's clear that this is what it is.   Not the planet itself

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