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48 Work Sunhot, no wind, dry, dry, dropping the fuzzy seeds; planting somebody else’s wealth, waiting for snow to grow like new life from the ground. Cool wind biting, with flies, fingers stiff with callused pricks, clean up the leprosy of white on the stretch of green as far as the eye can see. I am driving along I-76 to Florence the groves of old cotton smile back at me. At Lynchburg a monstrous beast crawls through the groves reaping in its wake, specks of disease remain. Nothing to clean a cotton grove like trained fingers, sharp eyes; takes days, takes the shift of your back and you still wake up groaning; still dream of the stretch of white on green. ...


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