Every fifteen minutes or so the harvest moon would bleed through the tourniquet of cloud cover that conspired to squeeze every droplet of pictorial sentiment out of the Skagit landscape in order that a more refined Chinese moon might brush the countryside. In the aloof washes of moonlight no form seemed to stir.
Tom RobbinsAbout author
- Author's profession: Author, Writer
- Nationality: american
- Born: July 22, 1936
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