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Frost

January 22, 2012

A fine frosty morning, in fact the first real frost of this year so far; grasses on the Common carrying a delicate filigree of ice. Almost too fine and delicate to consider walking on. The Bure flows slowly through the beds of reed and cress, calm and unsullied by any waterfowl. The occasional Snipe wisps org from the margins with its strange stuttering alarm call, it’s delicate feather pattern seems crisp and etched in the clear cold light. The scent of a prowling fox hangs by the river.

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