Pops in the park, under the tower, age nine. Running under monuments. Running under Beethoven. Running through woods and grass worn to mud. Uncle Dave on our quilt drinking wine. Mother and Father and bicycles and cheese. There are no words left to describe that Georgia anymore. It's unrecognizable, gone like a k-mart kite out of string. Hung in the high pines under the blue sky over Chickamauga.
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