Near December 21 the horse shelters take big mouthfuls of light, not a dark place remains inside them on a sunny morning. Now, even when the sun slants full into them, they are about a quarter shadowed. This winter the horses didn't spend much time in their shelters.
When I'm outdoors the political and culture war chattering voices lose their power. I can hear my own song. I know old songs, and some new ones, and when alone I sing. Long light in the evening, now. All good.
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