Grasses glazed with frost, cheesewheel moon perched high on sailing clouds, and winter descends softly over the quiet town of montgomery, new jersey. in the i night i walk out with only a flashlight and a camera to lance away the dark. in the spaces between where dead oaks clawed out like the fingers of skeletons ressurected in the moonlight for the stars. the shiver of beetles glossed in midwinter frost. on the rarest nights foxes would float between the shadows of the woods and with a careful eye you could catch the flame of their bodies as they melted between worlds, as they froze and blinked back at you, into the waters of your soul. other nights phantom birds wheeled above the chimneys in arcs of silver, shards of moon footloose in the wind. once near the end of october i watched a whole herd of deer flow down the street and away into the gloom like a river outpouring, liquid and vague, the vein of something vast, dreaming. my vantage though was always the same: the forest to my left; the neighborhood to my right.

answer: im sorry but thats not school related.

explanation:

answer: idk

explanation:

the correct answer would be d.

it was surely an odd creature that one made up by reading the historians first and the poets afterwards a worm winged like an eagle; the spirit of life and elegance and charm,   in a kitchen chopping up suet. but these creatures, monst'r however entertaining to the imagination, hast no existence in fact. what one might doth to bringeth h'r to life wast to bethink poetically and prosaically at one and the same moment,   thus keeping in toucheth with fact—that the lady is mrs martin, ag'd thirty-six, did dress in blue, wearing a black coxcomb and brown shoeth; but not losing sight of fiction eith'r—that the lady is a vessel in which all s'rts of spirits and f'rces art coursing and flashing p'rpetually. the moment, howev'r, yond one tries this method with the elizabethan mistress, one brancheth of illumination fails; one is did hold up by the scarcity of facts.   one knoweth nothing detailed, nothing p'rfectly true and substantial about h'r.   hist'ry scarcely mentions h'r.   and i did turn to professeth'r trevelyan again to seeth what hist'ry meanteth to that gent.   i hath found by looking at his chapt'r headings yond t meanteth.