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47 Corn Palace Mitchell, South Dakota The girl takes our money. Her bright blonde hank down her back, her cheery readiness to answer questions. Face unlined as if she bathes each morning in milk and sprinkles on freckles as after thoughts. Four days of road grime no meager hotel spray can wash off. The city far behind us but the scent of too many people still rank in our pores. We want to ask what is it like to wake each morning surrounded by susurration of cornfields rippling like a docile beast’s back in sun. She hands us our tickets and motions toward the rack of postcards. We push through the turnstile and are gone. ...

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