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45 Epiphany in a Spring Field The small green sward, size of a front yard, across B Street from the Stewart’s Drive-in in my little river town, has a complexion of spring grass and sprung daisies with evening sun sliding along, distant hills, pale green, sparse, like a first beard. Despite four cars and a Jolly Pirate Donuts shop obscuring continuity of the land, I imagine a torch from a campfire, in my hand waving light at the fresh valley’s verbless details. Evening glowing, endless sea of mountains fading off, the heavy breathing of unbroken trees beneath a salted sky, open and free. Then red light turns green. ...

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