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28 THE MINNESOTA REVIEW GARY MARGOLIS CALIFORNIA No fruit trees here, no fragrance warming the air, bees farming blossoms. Only this name reminds us of the thick orchards holding the hills, the old trucks of Chícanos and crates disappearing. The sign at the edge of the city, with its letters and numbers of people painted below, stands for the bright skinned circles that have fallen, rotten and been shipped away. Streets with their low buildings, roads with cars going back and forth, acres and acres buried by pavement. What they bring back, I don't know. Remember the story of the happy tremor that shook fruit into our baskets, left us in bed with our wives? The earth opened, we could look down and see the shiny leaves, the colorful balls. They gave up their places, their juices and peels, so we could harvest. Now there are no trees, nothing to empty at the end of the day to be counted and paid for, nothing in our sacks, round and light, to throw over our shoulders and weigh us down. ...

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