Immediately as I ride the rush of wind chills my skin and twines it’s fingers into my chestnut hair, making the waves brush against my shoulders and fly behind me. Over the creekbed trees stretch and barely touch each other, as though passing a secret from one to the next. I strain my ears to hear their whispers through the leaves, but if they speak to me I don’t understand. But that’s okay, let them keep their secrets. I have my own.
-Corinne Beenfield
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