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Abigail Patterson Creative/Technical Writer 678.357.2378

AP Naturalist View

I walked through the woods with you. The fog, unsettled, lifted us willingly above the mountains before us. It was stillness we sought, and confusion. We were tired of figuring out for so long and waned to be astounded. We’d heard the mountain view promised that, but there was fog to see in the meantime. Fog that thickened and absorbed, acted like a sponge to our aching, liquid, unended thoughts. Not unended for want of trying, but for lack of knowing everything, out greatest regret. We told ourselves we had years to understand the world, to move to new places, study offspring of our own, hoping that the same tender aching jealousy would moan out of our veins in later days. We knew our love was perfect - is perfect - and fought against time and trends and fatalist predictions that our mountains, our firm footholds, would remain after the fog of our nonexperience left us an accurate, a naturalist point of view.

10 Postcard