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Blueberry boy

I only wish I could have it just once more, you go back and the place looks dull and small in its mosquito biting green. I was a blueberry boy in that childhood, the sun would flush my freckles out from where winter hid them in the sallow pale color of snow and I would run the meadow for blueberries that my aunt Madge would turn into muffins I have longed for down the tripup of manhood.

Just a minute again, on my knees, picking frantically with expectant watered tongue, ignorant of what lay out of the woods.

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