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22 Invisible Childhood This is August’s tight ringing before rain, the low locust drone under a sky the color of ghosts, kicked-up dust so fine breathing tastes faintly of dirt— things as easy to ignore as a hill of crown vetch and wild lilies mowed down, as the blue-eyed speck of a bloom in QueenAnne’s lace. Or, as the tall seed-headed grasses, unmoving and burnt white-blonde, where, when the weather breaks, rain will drop darkness on the edges of a girl no one saw, who has been there all along, dusted with chaff, listening, motionless as a rabbit. ...

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