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it’s nice to see the horses down in this place they call Palliser’s Triangle where I stand still at a hundred and ten watch the sky pull away from me the road is iron flat and rolls like a tune through...
View ArticleThe Colour of Conversation
At dawn we tread the frosty ground in withered parkas, work clothes of linear and tangle. It is a shock when my father’s eyes meet mine so blue, so different from the mettle of his voice and tools....
View ArticleDesigning the Season
Saturday before supperthey take on spring in pickupsmake the rounds through mudjaunty the ruts of latticed country roadsmy father at the wheel of the green DodgeUncle Stanley passing whiskeydumped in...
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