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52 Almanac The Lord God’s favorite question was where, as in “where are you” to Adam, Eve, Moses, et al, like a man blind as love, or just lonesome; and we called out “here I am,” dragging our leaky bags of flesh over the fields, like wet fingertips across Braille. We asked why and skirted the holes of who—those shadowy wells our selves are poured out of, or into. True, sometimes we fell. You, diligent almanac, try to answer when and what (hardly burning questions). Poor little fortune teller, you borrowed red letter days from the church and your name from Gypsies. Welcome guest of the farmer and his daughter, you provide a daily diet of the small answers— proverbs, astrology, weather, and recipes. These days, farmers are dying out; it’s been downhill since Cain sacrificed the first flush of his field (then God’s disfavor, Abel’s body, God demanding where is he). 53 Still, you keep reminding us: An empty bag cannot stand upright. He that lives upon hope will die fasting no matter where or why. ...

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