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20 night CrawLers —In memory of Charles Zacharias Those spring nights, after we watered the backyard and its ancient cherry tree, he’d find them, by flashlight, buried in thatches of wet grass, root-like with the sheen and slick of raw flesh. I had to be quick of hand and tug hard to pull one free from its tunnel, then drop it writhing into the jar. Come morning, I’d let it drift under the deadfalls and cut banks of Bear Creek, but all I can think of now is that man beside me whispering, Look there! There! as if he were calling the hidden to come forth and be made visible— first dark, then breaking into light. ...

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