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85 The Wheelbarrower He winds down the gravel drive, pushing a load of mulch, a smaller and smaller blue shirt threading through the pines. I can barely see him, yet my eye tends toward him like a stem to sun— a study of straw hat and suspenders, his spotted dog nosing behind. Now he’s a tiny figure in his garden. Beyond the sweetgums south of the beans he dumps the mulch and rakes it level. I know the work he does.What I see is a man bent over a handle, rocking in rhythm, drawing it to his chest as if saying goodbye to it one more time, then casting it at arm’s length so he can say it over and over until it needs no more saying. He pulls the wheelbarrow back up the drive. A yellow butterfly flits about his shoulders. He keeps his head low and passes close, his eyes cast down as if daily work were prayer, dirt stains on the belly of his shirt. ...

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