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[16] i ’ M e X P L A i n i n G A F e W T h i n G S There’s an old bullet lodged in the field of scrub behind my house that’s grown colorless as dirt. The land is implacable, even as its familiar scene of death and light retreats into the browning dusk. Offspring of the offspring of the offspring of crows cross over the thistle and brush, cross over ground that remembers nothing of human loss. ...

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