Yesterday – it was a still, late summer’s afternoon and I had been wandering in the woods – I went into a graveyard in a secluded hamlet, beside a river, between the trees. Among the few, old graves was one of a very young girl, a baby, who died in 1971. She would have been in her forties now. I thought of all the years that I have lived, the things that I have done, places I have been, people I have known. And I listened to the nuthatches tapping high up in the boughs, saw their orange bellies radiant in the sun.
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