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April 19, 2008
In the gully, the grass is long, brown, and pressed flat against the earth. The snow and ice have melted, but the grass does not yet trust this possibly temporary state of things. It remains flat, face down, sucking a religion of fear from the mud below. The wind whips through the gully untested and cold. It comes in gusts, finding no resistance from the grass, no hint of life below. But in the sunlight, in the warm between the blades, there is a glisten. Maybe it is only mud. It could even be sweat. But it might be green.