outwait outrun outwit


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The May flowers are out. They adorn doorsteps around town, and gather, spinning, in the gutters. On an evening trip to Donegal town, we drive past fields burgeoning with gorse and hawthorn, frothing, sibilant pools of yellow or white. Above white farmhouses here and there, mountains loom, capped in cloud. Closer to the town, cattle graze beside the mouth of the River Eske. On the drive home, we listen to Patty Smith and Noel Gallagher, submerged in darkness, surrounded by green memories. I feel like I've made a long sojourn through Hades' realm, and it's time to feel the sun on my winter-chapped face.


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