Volume 20,
Issue 1,
Page 24
Summary
A dawn wind stirs on the great marsh. With almost imperceptible slowness it rolls a bank of fog across the wide morass. Like the white ghost of a glacier the mists advance, riding over phalanxes of tamarck, sliding across bogmeadows heavy with dew. A single silence hangs from horizon to horizon.
Marshland Elegy
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