The gray scale of our weather has been driving us batty. But things are growing.
Inch long beanlings, for instance, in the Back 40.
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"I celebrate myself, and sing myself,/And what I assume you shall assume,/For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.//I loafe and invite my soul,/I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass."
1 comment:
legumilations!
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