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Our morning:

A walk in the woods along a ridge-line trail rising up from the Musconetcong River.  I didn’t have  my camera, but that wouldn’t have captured the fresh cold smell of the snow and the slight sinking of our feet as we traipsed through it, or my surprise at the plump green rhododendron leaves peeking out from their hats of snow, or the dogs’ reluctant restraint as we told them to heel.  It wouldn’t have captured Waylon’s laugh and the feel of sprinkles on my neck as I grabbed hold of a beech tree bent under the weight of new snow and shook, the icy flakes pouring to the ground like sugar.