Sometimes of an evening, when all that remains of a perfect day is a sense of warmth and remembrance, a clear sky, and the sun hanging just above the western horizon, the trunks of our pines are striped by the sun’s last great sigh of satisfaction.
Sometimes of an evening, when all that remains of a perfect day is a sense of warmth and remembrance, a clear sky, and the sun hanging just above the western horizon, the trunks of our pines are striped by the sun’s last great sigh of satisfaction.