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All of it – the house in the village. The house in the side of a hill. The farm by Mariupol, the farm by Mount Carmel, Wolverine Creek, Bay Trail. The abbey where we planted a copse of blue spruce. The blue spruce. Pit dug. Fire lit. Ripe fields pulse with light and shadow. Clouds rush overhead.

R. Blessed is the field as it burns.

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