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53 SPRING, FINALLy on Stenton. Sunlight scat-sings along the wet fence. The city’s echo on the red sky mugging in pooled rain below two long measures of birds on a power pole— syncopated eighths, the opening of “Satisfaction” in E. Not-human and unreadable simulacra—that blurred mare on the Dixon estate, a prima donna on a dark stage— repeat through the tree breaks in my side mirror then retreat in the rearview. At the light Stenton dead-ends at Butler and on the power lines swallows are quarter notes against the blotted blue-black west: A magnificat on the horizon, Palestrina dotting the hills, a dark road before me. ...

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