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a sorry concept, that town Clouds rolled in, beach-fat over the valley, and hunkered down, dropped all they could. Then came the yellow days of winter, filled with boredom. The steel mill’s machinery strained under its shrink and the snow went gray as it fell. No starview , the panorama blotted as the worn-out hills cupped the exhaust. We were lowlanded , hemmed in by what provided for us. Shops closed, and the last train to Pittsburgh took off with that name. Icicles clung to the cut-rock along the highway. No letting up: the snow then snowmelt , rain. Upstream was bloated, a buckle close to bursting. Faulty dam and spillway. A buck or two off the cost for no drain basin. And there we were, dozing in crummy houses stacked together, beneath “surely the day will come.” Yet, those thoughts comforted, it was the one thing we could have. 41 ...

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