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29 Advent Story A poor field and we’re tramping through it three generations deep: father, daughter, and blond young man wielding an ax and whatever memories of Christmas past deliver us through this bright cold. There are cedars enough, but ice-damaged all: tops bent and trunks twisted like the spines of old women, or at close range a double trunk, a split heart that will not stand alone. But when a tree appears to rise from briars and low scrub, we let the boy use the ax, swinging to full heat. Then with a pull of the ragged saw and a shove, it topples. Man and grandson drag it to the fence line; tame its bushy limbs; knot it to the car, and so it starts: stinging scent of Advent green and the sharp prick; bite of ice cracked in the thin creek, the glint of stars in a solstice sky, their mute unblinking stare, their very cutting edges. ...

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