Logs Carrying logs from the back garden, I walk over blackened leaves stuck hard to the ground. These logs, no longer frozen together, still manage to produce a chill that penetrates my gloves and my wax jacket. A hot whiskey, I think, will be just the thing. Behind me, a massive limb, having lost its annual battle with winter wind, retains but a thin hold on the cypress tree. It will stay that way until John Murphy arrives with his chain saw. In the kitchen, I feel almost warm as I sip hot whiskey and…
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