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21 U P O N R E Q U E S T On Lincoln Street in Hartford, I listened to a Mr. Softee’s ice cream truck endlessly circle the streets to replay the hurdy-gurdy of its jingle through nearly every season for three years. Either too early in the morning or too late at night, some people chose to use their car horn instead of a doorbell. Sometimes, I was awakened to gunshots fired at four AM. Here, in this cabin in Cushman, I listen to the silence after the crickets have stopped answering the cicadas. I see the leaves of the sugar maple brighten to a deeper orange, hay-scented fern begin to bronze in the sun, and inhale a fragrance of cinnamon, the scent of their giving up their lushness for something other. ...

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