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The Turning of Time
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The earth spins on its axis, in orbit around its sun, and we, the little specks of life in the Universe, we invent clocks and imagine we control our time. We change the time on the clocks to "make" the sun rise later in the morning; we measure and adjust and calculate our petty days from year to year.

The dark time of the year approaches. We take out our winter clothes, shaking out the creases and folds, hanging them in the closet, ready for the storms to come. We put up heavier curtains against the cold, stack firewood by the back door, keep a stock of candles put by for the next blackout.

In the garage, a stash of nonperishable foods, laid in for the winter, as our ancestors did before us. Only we don't so much anticipate food shortages as temporary transportation interruptions, but the ancient instinct is there and it's very satisfying to stock up for the cold, dark months. Some atavistic sense of survival has been satisfied.

Snuggled under the blankets we sleep. Or clothed in turtlenecks and fur-lined jackets, shod in heavy shoes or boots, we trudge through these short days, long nights. Indomitable, persistent, flames of life are we, bright against the deep dark.

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