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Balsamroot Hill
1–2 minutesThe wind folds through the grass, turning it over, sculpting it, and, if you listen closely, you can hear the grass as it bends. In the distance there is the ever-present hum of the river, a muffled noise pressing in on you from somewhere far off, somewhere beyond the crest of the hill, and in
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Through Time
1–2 minutesThese are the scatterings of the wind—hemlock needles, and fallen branches, and hive-shaped cones, all blanketed in snow. Our steps are strange and lumbering, and, above us, the sky is heavy. It’s rain—the kind of rain that seeps out from tree branches and hillsides, the kind of rain that is somehow, in itself, green. Down
