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Carolina Woodpecker He works the loblolly pines outside the screened porch, where a lightning strike sheared three trees to yellow bone. In another life, I’d say he was a writer, working through a block. The lines come hard, each phrase parsed out. But this one persists––his vermilion head hammering out larvae and bark beetles. The day dissolves like a sugar cube. I lean against the door frame with a cup of coffee, admiring what he knows about the margins, his hunger that pounds on and on. 81 ...

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