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The Sapling Crickets slowed or increased in warmth and plainness, a pure seeking. Milkweed, puffball, the king dandelion and its slave, the sun. All that fluff until evening when silence ascended like stinging, wings whirring two high notes against the screen. The house was new, its bricks laid even like sensible words spoken before children. Letters arrived for my sisters— praise from schoolteachers and news of the boy on tour in Korea. My father returned late to work in the garden when the sun swelled and lowered itself gently as if in injury. I stood by his basket; the grass steamed, the weeds stirred as if still searching. A hole was made for the leafless sapling that, nursed along, recovered and grew on carelessly. Its permanence assured, it opened out obstructing window views. For years it grew, the parlor dimmed, and other rooms were overtaken. All youth was blurred i? and left exposed in winter. It was the coldest shade, its cunning ways confused the summer light that never caught up to us as we are now. In that house, a spider's egg exploded with secret force, its large family, so many, wandered every way but always into darkness. 18 ...

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