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Lake George, Adirondacks, NY. The ice is receding around the edges of the lake, pulling inward to the center where the water is the coldest, giving up it's acrage grudgingly to vernal urgings. Just before the sun breaches the dip in the range that borders the east side of the lake, I sit alone in the stillness, waiting for the wind to stir as it always does at sunrise. A small puff and some whispers will break the silence, as when the lights come on in a darkened theater and the crowd feels like they have to comment. I expect it, it rolls over my shoulders, past my ears, like so much noise. Every morning is revealed differently, each revelation produces an opinion. I am locked on what I see. The wind will murmur out to the iceline, soon to be gone.
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