Autumn here has tawny hues, amber and gold fused by a vast loving hand -- that hand shaped the grasslands hereabouts for cows, for the kind of people who eat acorns, who doubt the masks of interlopers.
The star thistle is a relatively recent arrival; its thorns never quite reconciled to life in these parts, like some Portuguese immigrant who made a killing in almonds or rice, but never lost his accent or the ways of the Basque.
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