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Danuta E. Kosk-Kosicka
The Dance
The gate beckons: the girl walks in the windfall of apples under the trees. She hears the pears land softly and the drunken bees dance on the bruised blushing skins. Tastes the raspberries from the bushes that grow by the side window. Smells the chestnut horse drinking from a trough next to the well. A pail on a chain sits on a stone ledge. She touches the stones of the well, the pail, the water.
Save—my fingers click—memories.
The computer screen glimmers, dims.
I climb the stairs, open the window. The woods still visible in the disappearance of the day. Focusing on one small area, I see one bright signal. Two. Three. Fireflies.

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