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135 SPRING Botticelli never pictured breakup boots, black ice, red pickup hauled back up the bank after falling through. A few days’ sun. All on one day, the leaves. Open, open and open. Marbled gold pollen floats. Every year since it was a river, this. Upstream an ice dam groans, screams, scrapes. Gives. Whole new breakup— huge floes blunder downriver, gouge up whole trees. Gossamer river—crushed ice shushes, slushes, three days floating by. ...

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