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Weekly Contest #349
You sang the bird's song as ash fell like snow in the Midwest heat. They sing back—but not their normal songs. No. The meadowlark's call came from your throat the way your grandfather taught you, summer of '04, back when Iowa meant corn and sky and the kind of peace that made the coasts seem frantic, seem ridiculous, seem like places where people had forgotten how to breathe without effort. Spring of the year. Spring of the year. Simple song. Six notes. The sound of prairie morning, of fence posts and wheat fields and a sun that rose clean, ...
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