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57 Bottle Gentian This August, understand what never opens. You thought you knew about blooming, about ditches lavish with daylilies. But these five fused petals live on refusal, clamped shut like a mailbox hoarding its letters. Each year the river shifts, the old spruce—tindery, brittle—comes closer to falling in. Still, there are days you want it all, not knowing: the precise line between woods and field, between gold grass and pine-and-dimness— and the way a hummingbird’s shadow flickers on the table, how something so small could tremble the light. ...

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