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Cycling Past That Farm

Once or twice a week I cycle on the back roads past an old farm. There is a white clapboard house with laundry hanging on the line, a decrepit swing set. They have one of those inflatable blue pools. There are no annuals hanging in baskets and no attempt at landscaping. The barn is close to the road and active. Cows nestle close to the fence.They stare me directly in the eye. Often when I ride by, whether early in the morning, or following an afternoon rain, there is a woman is sitting on her front lawn, reading at a table. She is thick waisted, and dyed blond hair swept up in a ponytail, often she is wearing a bathrobe. As I glide towards that corner, I always hope she will be there. She ne

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