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74 Falling Asleep while Hunting Where hickory ends cedar begins, a dark house where deer stir uneasy in the fragrant rooms. I enter through the hall, the one dry ravine where an ancient tablet of bedrock is revealed. This is where the buck hung back, letting the does go first. I lie on sun-warmed stone. My gun is laid aside. The smell of evergreen and gentle Indian grass. The leaves, the rock the tick of the briars’ dry brown clock. The buck motions, but I don’t understand. Then he stands and sheds his soft brown skin. ...

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