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Around the time of year when tree frogs begin to sing and I set about my gardening I found a tuft of fur tangled in the latticed fence where he scrambled under. Today, there is the old digger himself looking a bit scraggly but none the darker for having spent the winter deep within the earth. A reluctant shadow tags after him as he moves closer to find sprigs of grass, looking up every now and then to gather sunlight and the soft blue of sky into his dark eyes and perhaps to better hear the mockingbird singing. Well, it wouldn't surprise me if he took to climbing the cherry tree, in full blossom now, the way he did one radiant day a year or so ago.

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