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34 Like cracking a whip the size of a conveyor belt.Then its echo, the sound of all the bookcases in all the world bumping back against their walls. No. Like the god of noise stamping his hoof in a marble hall. Or, imagine the winter sky is the tight skin of a drum, thumped by the gunshot.The penny-colored dog looks up, looks at me, goes back to eating snow. My coffee, even through the paper cup and the cup-shaped paper around it, is hot. I sip while the sound pulls itself apart in the trees.Then another, knocking all over the granite canyon. I know it’s just some kids too close to the road, firing a shotgun at bottles or rocks. But it’s still the sound of a heavy-haunched creature being put down. Or it’s the sound of a great rural indignation. Or of some dread teenager’s heart backfiring. Or a hundred schoolchildren turning to see what clicked open the door. mountains ...

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