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About The Fox

He turned his nose toward me and I could see the thick red fur on his chest flip with the wind like the pages of a book.  The wild beasts here are music and painting to me.  Symphony and watercolor.  Poetry.

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Why Garlic?

How come, when everything else was moving local and organic, nobody had heard of premium, Minnesota grown, gourmet garlic?

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A Worker and A Builder

But I've been thinking about who I am when everyone else is stripped away.  If I had nobody else to attach my definition to, what would remain?

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Feeling the Wind

It is all these things that I love.  My son and his wind.  Butterflies and bees.  The dew melting at dawn.  The quiet of the ending night.  The crows and stomps and titters of a new day.

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Bloom

Our white crabapple trees bloomed last week.  The flowers were suddenly bursting in small groups, like strings of popcorn wrapped haphazardly along the branches.  The delicate arms of the tree danced and buzzed, alive with bumblebees moving from flower to flower, their legs fat with yellow pollen.  There’s nothing so good as this – the springing forth of life – and the beauty of it filled my chest and I thought, how can I move on from this?  How can I step away from such rapture to continue in any task but marveling at the tender beauty of our world?  How can I be eager for anything but to find my place here with the bees? And so I did for awhile, find my...

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