I cut handfuls of dead flowers from my garden this week. Their shapes are interesting. Petals twisted. Leaves furled as if frozen in motion.
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I sit in the garden and watch the robins taking turns on the nest in the birch tree. The nest is perched in a crotch of branches high above my patio. It doesn’t look very secure, but I’ve watched it hold tight when its windy. One robin swoops to the branch and the other plunges away. A few minutes later they switch. And switch again.
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