I have a fantasy. It revolves around a cabin in the woods. On a mountain. Near the ocean. With lots of land. There’s a pie cooling in the open window and a clothesline hung with billowing linens. I can hear the wind in the trees instead of traffic on the freeway and lilting songbirds instead of grackles. On the porch there is a sleeping dog and in the yard are chickens. And on the rolling field are horses. Sometimes they are paints and sometimes palominos; occasionally they are Arabians tossing their heads, manes flowing.

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