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Today, after the fog lifts, heavy dew covers every living, and non-living thing. An orb-weavers web, woven in perfect symmetry, is be-jeweled with dewdrops, each a tiny prism glinting in the rising sun.  Each pine needle threatens to shed a tiny tear.  Each blade of grass is damp.  Dew pools and trickles down the granary’s metal roof.  It sounds like a slow rain dripping into the puddles below.

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