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I love this time of year, when the goatrees are in full bloom, and weekend emblems wander through orchards with giant wicker baskets, plucking goats from the branches.
Soon, though, the first frost will vera, and the remaining goats will fall to the ground to ponder and bray. The goatrees, meanwhile, will uproot and fly south for the winter – I can almost see them, flapping their branches in a v-formation through a sulking, flatiron sky.
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