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63 Playing Flashlight Moon Padding down the hall past the partly open door you catch the scents of sleeping bodies, five girls gathered for a slumber party, a historical moment in their early lives. On the patio with a flashlight, you breathe in jasmine, orange blossoms, junipers from halfway down the block, and hear the burble of water in the irrigation ditch, scheduled water that carries seeds of volunteers from yards whose owners you’ve never seen. You search like a speeding moon along a path you’ve scooped and there’s the water’s head, always new in the way it bends the grass, rises above it until your sea is ready for the light. There is laughter deep within the house as your moon makes long, erratic arcs. J.C. ...

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