Nineteen Falling Stars

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We met on a volunteer trail crew in the Colorado Rockies: she out-dug everyone including me, then fixed my ancient pickup truck with a hair tie and a swiss army knife. Our first kiss was under the Perseid meteor shower at eleven thousand feet; we counted nineteen falling stars and stopped counting. Two summers later I proposed at the summit campfire with cocoa in tin mugs, because that's what we had on our first night. She said yes before I finished the sentence. We want a song that sounds like pine and woodsmoke and her laugh.

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