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 e a r LY s T o r M Pared down, defoliated, bare (the way they should have been), the trees would have shrugged off this sudden freeze— october lightning, sleet, the flare of power lines, and the wet sky miscarrying these globs of snow. They’ve stuck a finger in the eye of storms before. But up there, now, ten thousand leaves are dawdling in a vague midsummer haze, green, full, their hands held out for one more nickel from their reckless uncle rain. night and ice—limbs crash down, trunks split, the lights blow out. Grown old, we’re still not used to it: slow ripening, then cold-too-soon. ...

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