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May 13, 2014
I am coming across a wet slaw of grass and it is a quiet perfect early evening in a day where I have done nearly everything nearly right and where events have conspired to make me happy. I am moving toward a new perfect lake where he rain has pooled in rippled deep puddles in my front yard, where the Grand River has overflowed its banks, flooding the mill pond and rolling across main street. It is great weather for ducks you see and they strut up and down the drowned-orange-coned main street pausing to look into closed windows like tourists with bags and outrageous shirts and shorts leaning up against the impossibly clunking traffic lights.