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27 I enter the valley, drive through late afternoon, the hour of spoons and plates settling on tables, of dogs rising from tired rugs, their master’s key in the door, home now to feed them. The enchanted hour, even on a good day, needs no filtered lens, no special effects, no help from us. Under hedges, under trees, shadows circulate into leafy pools, a turning over of the earth, soilrich, transitional. Deeper into the valley, a combustion of rainbows and soft rain streams out of the green folds. Surrounded by beauty, my mother is dying. Compelled to witness this hour, this sweetness passing—light shifting across her face— I enter the gate to watch my father, holding out hope with each breath, feed my mother. � Long Before I Enter the Gate ...

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