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Rare summer clouds, pregnant with water, aching to break, a wetting of the warm afternoon, trees with amputated limbs sheared off by brutal winter winds, the ground covered with yellow green grasses, flowers blooming, the smell of watermelon rising from the earth. The Mokulumne River twists with restless energy, its rambunctious currents flowing beneath magnificent weeping willows and stately oak trees bowing with dignity like loyal servants beside winding banks, an elbow of water-logged twigs, swollen and washed of color cradled in the bend of a gnarled arm of roots at the river’s edge. |