THE BRIGHT MARE’S TAILS and puffy clouds of summer sunsets are no more. A skim of ice completely covers the Father of Waters, and by 5 o’clock the woods are dark. No lingering dusk, no calling of loons or white throats. But a late autumn glow fills the river valley, reflected by the ice, and the chill air booms with the chesty voice of the great horned owl. Winter creeps closer, wrapped in its own beauty, and all is well. Perhaps, one thinks, it is time to store the canoe, to rest, to await the next turning of the seasons.

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