16th April 1671

It is a strong wind which blows needle children onto freshly mown grass and drifts confused starlings from trees, and for once I am at loss to stand tall in the face of nature's melancholy rage so I bide my time in refuge and sing songs from someone else's youth. The sweet calm of evening brought broken badgers and wooden legged emus who rummaged in foliage for chestnuts and slovenly luckless worms. The warm smell of woodchip filled the air as I  stuffed my backpack with forest foods and badgers, I stumble ever forward as regret aims arrows at my back.

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