Just past the shed, along what would be a fencerow — if there was a fence — the field lies flat and even. Not like a pane of glass, but like a table covered in a cloth smoothed by hands smelling of dish soap and lotion, with vague and uneven undulations that beg to be smoothed. Cut over and harrowed, it holds no sign of what grew there last year or the year before, or the decades of years before.
Kathy Bradley: Counting the ways...And counting what matters


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