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Home Page The Grey Squirrel makes repeated raids, hauling the fat ball up onto the bird table, but it doesn't succeed in nibbling through the string, as it has done previously, because we've twisted a wire bag tie in to reinforce it. Now that we've turned the clocks back, it's sunset by the time I make my regular trip to the post office. There's a cold wind. Bare branches stand out in wintry silhouette against a clear sky.
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