"It's such a huge playing field, especially with the wind and shifting tides and only three women out. It's almost like you are fending for yourself out there."

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Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper's horn, and far-off, high in the maples, The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence Under a moon waning and worn, broken, Tired with summer.

— Sara Teasdale