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  • Out my window lie trees covered in a thin gloss of ice, gray wintry skies
    laden with frost, and an expanse of Carolina hills. We pass a sheep farm,
    and I think if I could, I would paint this scene with oils on a snow white
    canvas and hang it in my bedroom near the night stand. I feel myself drift
    off into a daydream, a sweet dream where I'm feeding a fire in the wood
    stove of one of these farmhouses. I dream the smoke rising from the
    chimney, pillowing out into the heavy sky, smelling of pine and birch. It
    is early morning, and from my window-seat on the bus, the only signs of
    life are some warm light in a distant farmhouse kitchen and the plumes of
    smoke rising like ghosts to greet the sky.
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