Yesterday, warmth slept in my bones and found me hidden by my hair and a mile-long scarf. For the first time in weeks, I worked outside, letting the sun catch my face and lips and crooked fingers. The clay felt good in my hands, as I squeezed it to see what it would show me. After work, David and I went on a walk and chased down the sunset. The
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With myth, there are many versions of a familiar story. So, too, is true of Atalanta.
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