The fog slow dances over the still surface of the marsh. Thin tendrils hang above the gray-green water, reluctant to leave their birth place. Slow tides of air nudge the ethereal threads into a calm, silent minuet; up, down, around, sliding apart around razor edge reeds then rejoining in a perpetual rebirth of form, magic, dreams.
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TERRY GROVES
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See AllI always knew that being a writer was a lonely choice. Long hours hunched over a keyboard, face awash in reflected light from the screen...
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