| Mid-Fall The air has the wistful quality of foreshortened time variable as a kite and prone to morning sickness; Quisp’d of quickened draft, pregnant with Old Man Winter. For S.A.D's, the light alley narrows to the size of European streets; For OCDs the leaf clutter mars clean-shaven forest floors. Meantime every seventy-degree day holds the promise of being the last, prompting impromptu celebrations of the narrowing of winter’s girth. |  |
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