They dragged the ditches a few weeks ago. They hauled their big, noisy, mustard yellow machines out to my edge of the county — the imaginary line separating Bulloch from Evans — and set about scooping every imaginable form of detritus from the long, open graves. Once exhumed, the roots and rocks, broken bottles and aluminum cans, plastic bags with faded logos, were tossed into — and left in — the middle of the road.