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Vol. 21, No. 4: Winter 2015

Hobart

by Davis McCombs

“He played the barn vents at curing time like the stops of an instrument, and went on, cupping his hands around the life he’d inherited as if it were a flame.”

He clucked his tongue, slapped the bull’s rump, and turned
a herd of Angus, single file, through the narrow gap
in the fence to the bar lot.

This article appears as an abstract above, the complete article can be accessed in Project Muse
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