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I plant the seeds for a baby underneath the magnolia tree where the soil is loamy and gentle, and under these conditions she takes, and quickly she grows bonny indeed. Each night I tell her a different story. Each morning I wake to condensation-drenched windows and I cannot wait to run out to where she lies, enfolded in leaves covered in light, prickling fuzz.
Prize marrow, I whisper to her as I wipe the dirt from her forehead. I picked the best patch of dirt for you, the sweetest seed.
Oh thee of little miracle. Oh the bounty of nature itself.
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