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  • The Adirondacks
  • Jeffrey Skinner

"Look," my father says, placing his hand in the sky, "I got the moon between my thumb and forefinger!" We are in a clearing, forest to the right. The campfire grinds out its squeeze-box tune. "Go to sleep." My eyes close down on a bed of stars. It is all so European. I can hardly wait for eggs scrambled in the open. The morning piss, wherever I please. The day of the bow, animal slipping through trees . . . I'm nearly asleep in fragrant needles. Then: yanked back by a scream, wide-eyed and up on one elbow; my father standing, sniffing the air. He picks up the axe and walks rapidly into the woods. Some thrashing, the low grunts of physical effort. Now I'm alone, and the night could not be more American.

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