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179 One Girl These were decent people, publishing the salaries of public employees, their indiscretions and local tragedies. They came from a land of hunger to this place protected from storms according to an old Indian blessing. It seemed everyone made way: the old ones who called the land holy; even the ancient lake drew back her flat skirt of waters leaving good black earth. They built up the lowlands, drained ponds, pushed back the river banks to plant grain. They made this place rise like bread. One Girl walked right out of the earth. She stood on their bridge telling their sons the story of the river in its own language. Those boys returned home silent or, against their mother’s glances, tried words that broke and stumbled like water over rocks. One Girl stood during storms on their bridge, watching funnels draw up into clouds passing close, as though she had come to take that leftover blessing, let the tornado slam like a freight train down main street. They drove her out of town through their graveyard, through stubbled wheat by the water tower. And then did they see? Her heart cracked open, a sack of hard yellow feed, spilled for crows to pick. The black wind wrapped her body. Her tattered cries flapped away like birds. Now, to boys who would speak it, even her name sounds far away. ...

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