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By Taylor Graham Past the garden and the neighbors' split-rail fence, out the ridge to see if yellow tarweed is suddenly in flower, the last gold of August into September. The same route, late December mornings when ponderosa bows under the weight of last night's snow, the air splintering frost-flakes in the nostrils. Always the same path: the dog and I tracing familiar patterns from the pinewood door and back. And now, at 3 in the morning without a flashlight-- the old dog's so urgent for me to follow through the dark, leading me away from home that's held us so long to our lives; leading me away from everything we've known. |
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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007