PeterWell
FollowMorning’s Burden
I am slowly getting accustomed to the deceit of Otago’s winter sun. Its golden rays left only an impression on the old farm, leaving nothing palpable behind. ...
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I am slowly getting accustomed to the deceit of Otago’s winter sun. Its golden rays left only an impression on the old farm, leaving nothing palpable behind. It is so cold.
The sky is turmoil. Dark clouds, the atmosphere’s transient villains, are gathering strength for the incoming showdown. The day is in limbo, giving me an uneasy sensation that the smallest of breezes can tip its mood either way.
Still, these open spaces are my home. At least they feel like it.
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The sky is turmoil. Dark clouds, the atmosphere’s transient villains, are gathering strength for the incoming showdown. The day is in limbo, giving me an uneasy sensation that the smallest of breezes can tip its mood either way.
Still, these open spaces are my home. At least they feel like it.
Read less
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