One steppe at a time
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Morning: the flower beds outside my window are reduced to black, frozen, Mongol horde ravaged tundra. A blistering wind ushers remorseless flakes of driving snow across the barren steppe of Beacon Street. So, dressing-gowned and slippered, I gently lower the curtain on the first act of this year's wintry drama having already forgotten my lines. ...
A half-frozen balloon glass of red wine, under a bush, just off the sidewalk.
A young cream-colored spaniel in a red coat, out for a walk in the snow.
A woman at the teller window at the bank saying, "I wanted to buy rubies. I'm going to India at the end of the month... You don't have them?" ...