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                                     by John Balaban
  At dusk, by the irrigation ditch gurgling past backyards near the highway,locusts1 raise a maze2 of calls in cottonwoods. A Spanish girl in a white party dress strolls the levee by the muddy water where her small sister plunks in stones. Beyond a low adobe3 wall and a wrecked4 car men are pitching horseshoes in a dusty lot. Someone shouts as he clangs in a ringer. Big winds buffet5 in ahead of a storm,rocking the immense trees and whipping up clouds of dust, wild leaves, and cottonwool. In the moment when the locusts pause and the girl presses her up-fluttering dress to her bony knees you can hear a banjo, guitar, and fiddle6 playing "The Mississippi Sawyer" inside a shack7. Moments like that, you can love this country. 点击  收听单词发音  
 
 
 
 
 
 
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