And there we were one morning, knowing our dreams were not becoming any closer to true. Awake on the edge of another day with feet facing forward and hands making their movements at always an armslength or less from the bulk of our meats. And a change brewing. And for once in what might have been years the house was silent except for the birds that made a bed in the walls through the winter and the smaller ones outside on the power wires and in the plumpening brush.

"What was this country," they asked in flauted exhalations, "once?" Peckering high notes.

Max Tabackman Fenton was younger then.
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