“His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before.” ― James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
A tree lay across what once was an old logging road now turned to an eroded pathway to the past. The bark had long fallen away leaving the bleached wood to become a mossy bridge for chipmunks to cross. I locked my truck, grabbed my rucksack, and headed up the barely discernable road to see if she was still there at the homestead where I left her many years ago.
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