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I am delighted by the spray of yellow across our lawn. Mornings, before housework, I take up a spear and launch the attack. Largest ones first, I thrust and lift, happy when I'm able to loft one in a perfect arc. I think of small explosions. Of course, it's getting so I see them in my sleep, and last night I thought I saw one in the cupboard as I was preparing supper. I imagine hanging them from my clothesline and had a vision in which my spear had become a staff. Dandelions moved out of my path, scuttling sideways like crabs. Every passer-by says the same thing, ``It's a losing battle.'' But my arms are growing stronger than they have ever been; my hands are calloused. I sit on the balcony surveying my fields with binoculars, replaying my best strikes like popular television commercials.

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