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Danny; twenty years later In heavy mist workers in thick brown gloves lift shovels of earth in a steady rhythm. They open hermetically sealed bags of orange clay not native to this state, spill two inches worth into each hole. When they have moved off a way, I stoop lift a lump of it into my hands it has been not long enough-or, too long- since I took my first steps in this sticky stuff. The workers now lift small pines from the bed of a borrowed state highway truck stand them in the holes and cover their roots in more clay. I watched years ago when they buried you, and I know what these earnest gardeners do not. These trees will not grow here only, take a long time dying. |
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