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BUFFALO BONES My father sprang the first bone loose from the sod by luck. He gripped the rib. Felt it anchor. He touched the chest, the rough fur. And dug for days until he tore the beast free, the vertebrae packed tight, broken. He carried the skeleton into the scrub brush for keeping. We rode on its back under the leaves, listened to the herd travel underground— that clatter and thump of hooves. We called them like cows. We were sure they could hear our bare feet stomp the dark clouds of dirt.  ...

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