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  • I remember it all so well from my own childhood.
    The woods.
    A small brook.
    You pick up shards of ice, you try not to break them. Your fingers are freezing, but you are so in to achieving even bigger shards, so you put your little hands in the ice cold brook again and again. And then you tire of it, and start stomping away instead.
    Boots crushing the crust. Splinters of ice jumping into the water. Pants getting wet.
    The smell in the cold air. Earthy, for the first time in months. The moss on the tree trunks is moist to your touch, in stead of stiff and frozen.
    Spring is getting closer by the minute.
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