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Living Local Fiction

January 16th, 2019 | 15 min read

By S. Dorman

On first moving to Maine and seeing a line of tall ledges from a nearby road, I was enchanted, surprised. I’d never seen anything like them before: Mountains like waves of rock waiting to crash over the land. Not long ago, on snowshoes, we broke trail in a field below. In three feet of snow, exhausting ourselves, driven by winds laden with chill factors below zero. Oh that cup of coffee on our return!

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