The future is unknown. Gray-white glistening tops. White glistening, snowpeaked tops, engulfed by the clouds crashing down on me wild, free, untameable, constantly moving. Every flower is busy; every bee in a tizzy. Every hen folk is hatching while the men folk are scratching. To assure the survival of each new arrival, Mother Nature’s miracle. Her new seasons, heir: Spring Spring Spring.

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