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 Farmer,฀ after฀Ben฀Shahn’s฀Sunday฀Painting A฀slight฀man฀stands฀in฀a฀field฀in฀the฀Midwest in฀his฀Sunday฀best—white฀shirt฀and฀suspenders, black฀hat฀with฀grosgrain฀ribbon฀at฀the฀crown. He฀could฀have฀been฀one฀of฀my฀grandfathers though฀they฀were฀“men฀of฀the฀cloth,”฀not฀farmers, and฀this฀man฀is฀no฀particular฀man. Bushy฀eyebrows฀protrude฀from฀under฀the฀brim, his฀head฀turned฀from฀you฀so฀you฀cannot฀see his฀face,฀his฀eyes.฀He฀is฀the฀kind฀of฀man who฀is฀not฀aware฀of฀you฀or฀even฀interested in฀how฀you฀see฀him,฀which฀is฀only฀in฀profile. What฀strikes฀you฀is฀his฀stance,฀his฀outline against฀the฀landscape,฀though฀“against”฀isn’t฀right. In฀this฀fallow฀field฀of฀dry฀grass,฀sandy฀loam, bits฀of฀scrub฀growth,฀he฀is฀neither฀a฀part฀of฀the฀field nor฀apart฀from฀it.฀He฀is฀not฀yet฀old,฀not฀yet฀grey, though฀there฀is฀a฀spread฀at฀his฀middle and฀a฀slump฀to฀his฀shoulders฀from฀leaning into฀the฀wind.฀Here,฀even฀in฀his฀Sunday฀clothes, he฀is฀not฀out฀of฀place.฀In฀fact,฀he฀wears฀this฀place comfortably,฀his฀thoughts฀taking฀on฀the฀hue of฀the฀sky฀as฀crickets฀chorus฀the฀dusk, his฀stride฀stirring฀up฀bright฀clouds฀of฀fireflies. Hands฀clasped฀at฀his฀back,฀one฀hand฀stands฀out enormous,฀out฀of฀proportion,฀because one’s฀desires฀always฀exceed฀one’s฀grasp. He฀seems฀at฀peace,฀perhaps฀thinking฀about his฀strapping฀sons,฀the฀world’s฀progress,฀the฀descent of฀the฀Bathysphere฀,฀feet฀into฀the฀Atlantic.  It฀is฀the฀year฀of฀the฀ball-point฀pen.฀Three฀years฀before Pearl฀Harbor,฀before฀mushroom฀clouds,฀even before฀we฀found฀those฀cave฀paintings฀in฀France. He฀is฀alone฀but฀not฀lonely.฀He฀kicks฀at฀a฀clod฀of฀dirt. The฀land฀stretches฀out,฀endless฀before฀him. ...

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