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The Mule When he was young, he’d just as soon stomp a stalking coyote as back-kick a newborn calf. Before this sterile prince of the pasture was gagged, strapped, and led down the shaft where time is measured by wear on the bit, he pissed on fescue and browsed through barbed wire on privet. Down here he’s just another jack taking the same steps in the same ruts, then back again for another load. Behind a blindfold, pupils spreading like ink to the edge, there’s no world left in his eyes. He hopes this longer haul upward is only a dream. The hoarse Gee, Haw, and Hooooo, straps kneading against hames, the creaky wheel—are deadened to whispers by sledges pounding fresh track up ahead. Nearing the surface, he shivers and swats his tail at the warmth as he once swatted flies. A tinge of honeysuckle smells sour as skunk. He recoils at the light 50 flashing around his blinders, stumbles toward a ring of fire he can’t bear. 51 ...

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