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June

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June

Guffawing over the ancient histrionics of Foghorn Leghorn and his fellow animaniacs, our tushies squeak on smooth leather, adding comic effect.

Outdoors, the cereus, climbing the willow, dinner-plate blooms—or so it seems to us—fill the night, Scorpio fully aloft the southern horizon. We bathe, friends, in the breezy night, chilling, arms locked, warming ourselves as the night cools day's wind-filled, breathless grasp.

—Carl Stoeckel

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