by Stephen C. Paden
Clara Sims grabbed a few logs from the stack between the iron posts she erected last spring and walked through the unkempt yard and to the porch. She leaned down, trying not to grab her back from the pain, and set the logs on the second step. She took off her work gloves. Her hands were coarse and weathered by the seasons she had spent in the woods gathering morels when the time was right, chopping wood, carrying rocks from a creek that babbled about a mile away, and doing yardwork. Her hair, mostly gray with streaks of auburn, flowed gently down her back in a makeshift hair-tie. The cool wind gently blew threw her hair. She closed her eyes and let it sift through her.
Fall was coming; she could smell it in the air. She wouldn’t light the chimney just yet, but the time would…
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