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45 my five year old My five year old is learning Spanish from the village children. This morning the noisy babble of play rises from the courtyard . He’s at his lessons. Mira! he says, Behold! and he points. Gallina, say the children, gato, lagarto, lizard on the sun-struck wall. What scholar’s happiness is his, singing his two-syllable song of wonder as things stir from their sleep in answer to their names. I, too, find happiness in the reenactment in the garden. Felicidad. At my window, I keep an eye out for what hangs back in shadows, keep one ear cocked for the unsayable. ...

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