From My Walk

I went up over the ridge-line, past the sisters, and ran into this little fellow. He did not want to pose for the camera, and we walked together a little distance, with him getting madder and madder and finally stopping, “come at me, bro.”

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Migrants

When the mistral wind from North Africa blows up into the south of France, the summers are hot and dry and cloudless. I forget the year, but I was around 9 or 10; the rest of the situation was unforgettable.

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