Diana Harvey


The whole day is in a minor key and colored gray. I sit on a high cliff with my back against a tree-gazing at the sky and the water-trying to make myself a part of their tranquillity. Up above is the skyspread with a thick layer of gray clouds; it hangs low over the earth. Beneath lies the water-endless rows of small waves, pinched into shape and pushed to shore by the slow wind. The trees, too, are playthings of the wind; it uses their stark, black branches as strings and strums long sad chords upon them. I am calmed by



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