It's the time of year when I go the long way into Winchester, right through the heart of Cowan, (in)famous recently for a child pornographer who passed himself off as a reputable town benefactor, but I prefer to think on what lies across the street from the railroad museum and behind the bank, especially in the neatly tilled, planted, and tended rows behind the white fence: the first blousy blooms of almost-summer.
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