The rising of the sun of this last morning before Christmas comes in a special way. I look down the slope toward the brook and see brilliant stabs and flashes of light scattered over the weeds and bushes. Walking among them, I find they are strewn with plates of frost, many tilted at exactly the right angle to reflect the dead flower heads of the goldenrod, along the outer branches of the plum tangle, down the rough rails of the rustic fence.
- Edwin Way Teale, 1899-1980
A de-Putin-Nazification of America Update, by C.J. Hopkins - So the de-Putin-Nazification of America couldn’t be going much better at the moment. In terms of emotionally manipulating people (and especially any hereto...
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