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A winter birch tree.

December 3, 2010

It’s all curled up and asleep in my hand, its tiny heart beating a mile a minute. There is not a thing in the world that could capture its soft spirit: It is so tiny. The cold wind whips around me as snow flurries begin to fall; I gently kneel down and recover the nest, placing the baby mouse back inside. It is something to incredibly simple yet, complicated. I shiver to think of the task before the mother mouse. After placing the board back , i quickly cover it over with snow, taking care to check over my shoulder to see if anyone is watching. Then, brushing the clumped snow off my knitted mittens, I hurry up the icy path, away from the old barn.

There is a bang as the door blows shut behind me, sending cold air whirling around the living room. The house is filled with the glow of a winter fire and the smell of fresh-baked bread. I sit down in the faded floral upholstered chair, yanking off my boots, while the wind howls outside.

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