A spring robin weaves a scarf of song around the morning house pours out exquisite trill-points, full rich, deep-throated fall of musk roses. The sun, as if waking through blinds casts spears of blonde long-raking the taut green hills. River-straddling alders catch the light, roll it in their branches turn it ripe and rosy with their conjuring. And sliding beneath, the Redlake river gently flaunts her gold and purrs a soft applause.
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