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At most hours of the day, my street is quiet. Not forebodingly quiet, Just quiet. A bird’s song is drowned out by the rustle of wind in the leaves, a car whooshes past. In the distance a dog barks, once, twice, perhaps a third time.

Down further along, the neighbour passes silently to the back of his yard, and a few minutes later, back to his house with a stack of kindling under his arm. Stillness returns. A swallow swoops over the road, catching the last of the afternoons bugs as the sun casts its final rays across the tops of the aspen trees. As an almost imperceptible chill has crept into the air, signaling the changing of seasons, life goes on as it has, quiet, dignified, glorious.

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