“The sun was sinking into the saw-grass.  The marsh was golden.  The whooping cranes were washed with gold.  The far hammocks were black.  Darkness came to the lily pads, and the water blackened.  The cranes were whiter than any clouds, or any white bloom of oleander or of lily.  Without warning, they took flight.”

– The Yearling, Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

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