Author: David Grubb
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Late Summer
Saxton jammed the butt of his rifle into his shoulder and aimed it at the flash of movement. He kept the front sight trained on a slim form as it moved down the steep slope of a hill his pa, long dead from typhoid, had nicknamed Baldy Knob. His higher position on an…
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Before Mud Season
Smoke from chimneys leak into houses, windows cracked eager to suck in anything fresh. Elated Mothers, doffing last year’s LL Bean spring collections, no longer scold frisky pent-up children for leaving doors wide-open. Soon, they’ll shriek about thick blackish gray mud trekked in all day and night, but not yet. Dirty iced snow hangs on…