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42 Winter Feeding The cows steaming like a herd of kettles and Granddad with the truck in low aiming toward the far back fence, then slipping out the door, into the truck bed. Under him the deck gently pitching as he unfolds his Barlow and cuts the twine, pays out hay in bristling packets. And me inside the cab, turned, watching, the back glass like a sheet of ice against my face, the steering wheel, unmanned, tossing. Sunlight screaming through the cracked windshield, heater bawling. And then the old man dropping back inside, turning us just in time before we crash into a line of skeletal oaks. And our passing back by the whole parade of bobbing and jostling, eyeball blaring, neck-stretched lowing. Granddad shoving the butt of his palm into the horn button to shoo some heifer out of the way. 43 And then the way we leave the pasture smoking in our wake with me feeling we’ve done something heroic and unforgettable and fishtail through the gate. ...

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