I sit on my porch, glancing forward at the wall of white falling snow. Glancing upon the wall of the falling frost, I find that the only thing stopping it from dropping upon my head is a spruce roof above me, stopping the freefalling snow in its tracks. Shivering, I lean backwards, my mind drifting from thoughts of rabbit stew to ones of happy summer days and sleepy autumn afternoons. It is so beautiful even now, to see barely anything make it through the sheet of frost, nothing but the gentle hands of sunlight and brief views of the snow-covered road. At this moment my hand falls to my side, reaching into my pocket and pulling an orange. I slowly peel it, and raise it to my mouth. I imagine onlookers, looking at my small hut. The bright orange of the fruit clashed so well with the blank white of the flakes I imagined from a distance, it appeared I held a miniature sun in my hands.
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