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 Homestead He had the wanderfoot, and that’s how we landed in this harvest of rocks and wind. We had dirt and water and some sticks of wood. We had two earth rooms and babies in a trundle bed. At night his hands were shale resting in the furrow of my back. And the wind, a plow coming from the west, turned up the gray clods of our dreams. Days piled like stones lifted and placed by the side of the field, yet whole acres were ahead. We wondered how west was west, how we’d come this far. ...

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