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My parents’ house in located on a small, wooded hilltop in rural Maine. One morning I sat out on the old brick patio working on a first cup of coffee, and took in the entire moment. The silver-leafed birch trees were swaying in the crisp morning breeze, silhouetted against a clear, unbelievably blue sky. It couldn’t have been anymore than 65 degrees outside and all I could hear was the sound of morning birds, the occasional wind chime hidden away in the forest, and the wind moving through the leaves. Perfect.
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