The Sunday Whirl

Joe sighs, seeing ravaged blue skies flip into the gray of November. Ashes from his camp fire emerge into the chilled wind and then soak into the damp forest floor. A heavy wool weave masks the icy temperatures against his skin. Joe is saddened at the loss of autumn brilliance to bare limbs. Winter is upon him but he’s taking one last hike before the snow covers the trails.

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Wordle 679