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Once Our Summers
by Sherri H. Hoffman
Tadpoles in the swamp, stolen cigarette, baseball, and the horses across the way with lips like tulip petals. That time the piebald mare rolled a white eye at Ranger, our spaniel, grabbed him in her square teeth and tossed him over the rail. Tamped her hoof. Out of here, dog. The herd spun from the fence like a flock of birds turns in the sky by some covert signal, wind or sun, bucking across the pasture, ass and tails, farts bouncing out of the piebald mare as if it was one big rehearsed joke.