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Veronique de Turenne

Change of season


In the morning, before there's even much light, there's color. A kind of low, slow rose that comes humming down the beach, turns the sand a little pink, bounces off the bluff. Out at sea, a horizon packed with clouds, slate gray, reflecting water. No traffic, unless you count the gulls, their wing beats an alto thud in the still, chill air.

Next entry: When they were trailers

More by Veronique de Turenne:
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