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Liturgiam Antisanctus PaulusIt is morning, here in Maine. Or it was, when I wrote this. A golden dawn is rising over the dead, white-smattered trees. The damp, crusty Earth has shuddered with recollection and Her heart now beats with anticipation at the long-whispered, now murmured promise of Grandmother Sunna's life-giving embrace. My property, such as it is, is soaked in this promise. Soon, the blue sky will foist SUNNA high, enthroning that long-contemplated demiurge in her place amid the invisible stars, so hidden beyond the pale, velvet blue.
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In the vales below, the various folks, tribes and clans are preparing to embrace a new life apart from the doldrums of living the solstice of chill. They are now, even if subconsciously, filled with a certain implacable cheer.
This, after weeks of prevailing grey. A world in which the steel grey sky gave perfect complement to the pristine white of the ground. A world in which cold, and death, had reigned unabated. Yet even that cold, deathlike slumber carries with it a