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1 4 8 Y W A Y S I D E R E S T J U S T I N Q U I N N The path goes up into the sky where odd clouds in late summer stray, then down again through wheat and rye, and baking bales of hay, to where the forest shadow starts. The trail goes in, comes out, and on. There are good stretches, then the parts when all the water’s gone, the road’s tarmac, the sunrays blind, and there’s no rumor of a breeze. That’s when you’ll need good luck to find a brief file of such trees – greengage, damson, mirabelle – planted for shade and refreshment, or by a man whose fences fell after he upped and went to his grave or to God knows where. Glossy yellow and frosted blue, we eat the fruit and we should care, but we’re all passing through. Even these trees seem to ask us: who’s journeyed farthest across the earth? From Asia Minor and Damascus, grafted from our birth, 1 4 9 R we’ve come to a Czech road, although we look like natives of this mile. Even these laded trees, even so, just rest here for a while. ...

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