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The first real frost of the season
Found a patch of frost on the west-facing fence this morningâcrystalline, perfect, like lace drawn in reverse. It wasnât just on the metal; it had climbed up the bark of an old hawthorn, thin and ghostly. I stood there for three minutes, watching the sun hit it just right. Not a single leaf on the tree yet, but the frost was already whispering: this is how silence begins. Took me back to when I used to measure cold by the way it settled into my boots. Still do.
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