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Haze hangs in the air. The antique house, shop, says it’s closed. Its windows are dark. Empty. In the front yard, near the road, a wooden rowboat sways suspended above the ground. Twisted oaks hunch like old men. From their branches hang faded ties like the lichen of the Hoh Rainforest–Methuselah’s Beard. All colors, like an abandoned circus. Circa who-knows-when. Hundreds, swaying, still.

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