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65 Aubade฀with฀a฀Thistle฀Bush฀Holding฀Six฀Songs A฀man฀told฀me฀that฀he฀had฀wasted฀his฀life.฀I฀did฀not฀know฀him. We฀were฀on฀a฀train฀moving฀from฀one฀trespass฀to฀the฀next, the฀fields฀in฀the฀windows฀shifting฀utterly฀into฀daybreak. He฀told฀me฀about฀the฀guitar฀he฀bought฀with฀a฀little฀cash saved฀at฀odd฀jobs,฀how฀he฀could฀not฀play฀but฀kept฀the฀thing as฀a฀symbol฀for฀failure. All฀I฀know฀about฀this฀man฀was฀that฀his฀hat฀sloped฀over฀his฀eyes and฀the฀way฀he฀kept฀his฀hands฀close, as฀if฀holding฀a฀sparrow฀with฀few฀songs฀left฀in฀its฀throat. The฀rails฀below฀us฀were฀making฀comparisons as฀if฀they฀were฀saying฀look฀at฀the฀thorn฀tree฀gone฀wild, look฀at฀the฀gravel฀kicked฀on฀the฀ties. I฀wondered฀about฀the฀hollow฀of฀the฀guitar฀and฀of฀the฀voice฀of฀the฀man. It’s฀always฀like฀this฀on฀trains—the฀burn฀of฀your฀ear when฀a฀stranger฀speaks฀over฀the฀sun฀cutting฀through฀windows. I฀was฀like฀ashes฀without฀feeling.฀I฀was฀like฀the฀worse฀wrong฀of฀pity, like฀rain฀on฀metal฀railings.฀I฀didn’t฀listen฀to฀his฀story, though฀that฀was฀his฀gift.฀He฀wanted฀something฀brave and฀so฀passed฀a฀breath฀through฀my฀ear,฀too฀warm฀for฀the฀hour. I฀looked฀past฀the฀man฀through฀the฀window฀and฀saw฀three฀birds on฀a฀thistle฀bush฀blur฀by,฀then฀another฀three฀flying฀from฀somewhere and฀thought฀of฀the฀six฀strings฀on฀this฀man’s฀guitar.฀Each฀note the฀name฀of฀a฀stranger฀who’s฀asked฀me฀for฀an฀ear.฀Each฀note฀like฀dawn pouring฀through฀the฀windows.฀Some฀names฀rise. Some฀names฀are฀left฀at฀the฀station.฀They฀can฀wear฀cheap฀suits or฀drink฀sweet฀wine,฀but฀it’s฀the฀story฀of฀the฀name—those฀sparrows stuck฀to฀a฀thistle.฀And฀how฀they฀sang,฀how฀they฀sang. ...

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