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All wars should be fought in this garden

Morning with light rain brings to the ranks of touch-me-nots unscythed at the foot of the garden a hummingbird whose small blurred fury of wings stirs leaves and pods to a green ambush. The scene is infiltrated, alive with emerald explosions.

How slight is the trigger on shells critical with seed! Where is . . . is there . . . enemy? Raindrops? Wings?

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