It was four in the morning when I started.The stars were still out over the east ridge, hard and white, the way they get in Tennessee in June before the humidity rolls in. The field was black and silver. Every blade of grass held a drop of dew, and when I stepped off the gravel and into the hay, it soaked my jeans to the thigh before I’d taken ten steps.June timothy. Gold at the tips. Up to my knee.I could smell it. Sweet and green and a little like summer rain on hot pavement. That smell has been in my lungs since I was four years old.
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