The Scent of fresh basil smashed between your fingers straight from your own garden
Licking melted grape popsicle off your hand
Any song of Tracie Chapman anywhere at any time
Song birds bursting into song as you fill their feeders
Sweat. You have to be strong enough to produce it so appreciate it
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Pole bachit, a lis chuye.
The field sees, the forest hears
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