The Canopy
The verdant cloak, inching closer to the bay window overlooking the head of the St Jones River where I write, is glistening with the continuing precipitation – each leaf a sparkling emerald – droplets the size of quarter dollars rap and tap on the sky-light at the apex of the vaulted ceiling of my tree house. The verdure is eerily still while starry openings reveal a silver-gray yonder. The usually sun-bleached white walk is tan, colored by the moisture that refused to cling to the lush vegetation that drapes an arbor of branches like long arms and fingers reaching, reaching until autumn and then winter, perforce, amend the green and disrobe the wooden structures.
– Robert Pennington Price
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