The Sunday Whirl

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The stone path was icy but we trudged on. A red feather drifted by my warm breath; a few sparks from the pond-side fire must have startled a cardinal. We were usurpers, spread around fiery logs, bending to tie up our skates. The freezing snow scented air gave a clue to hidden creatures that an invasion of humans would soon come. Snow plopping down from pine bows framed an enchanted memory of younger days at this same pond. I was no legendary skater, but it was the nostalgic brew of a favorite season when my sisters and I took turns testing the hardness of the ice.

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