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Heather Swan lives in the Midwest with her family, a German shepherd, and seventy thousand bees. Her obsession with insects led to her book Where the Grass Still Sings: Stories of Insects and Interconnection.
The best nights are when moonlight comes through the trees, casting indigo shadows across the ice. My partner swoops around, his arms swinging in front of his crouched body. “It’s the closest we get to flying,” he said once as he sailed past me. Another time: “Maybe this is how a dolphin feels carving through the water.” He loves the tension of the blade slicing across the surface, the whoosh of his skates drawing elaborate patterns on the ice, the crunch of a hockey stop. I listen for the occasional owl.
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