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99 re-sculpted the hills, broadcast mixed seed from the air, gave dust dusty yellow canola to hang onto until willow and cranberry reinvaded. Grown taller than our pickup, good browse, willow covers our tracks. Hidden, your hard miner’s palm lifts from coal-colored lace the sunwarmed hillside of my breast, your mouth seismic, turbulent as we reclaim one small patch, August afternoon. Twenty years ago, primacord and front end loaders uprooted this whole watershed, loosened dirt tied up in root wads, blew the ground’s cover. The dragline scraped away overburden concealing coal soon to be burnt into electricity. After trucking out forty foot seams, twenty foot seams, gleaned skinny seams, the miners HAUL ROAD ...

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