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July 2018, vol 14 no 2

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Barbara Tate


He puts the telescope on the deck, yanking it's tripod legs into submission, looking at the place where an oak tree stood until this afternoon when he had his nephew cut it down leaving a gaping hole in the yard and four squirrels homeless. Now he could see the sky. The meteor shower is coming, prime time 2-5 a.m., the weatherman says.

He hears echoing inside the vacuum created by the surgeon's scalpel. Somewhere in the third heaven the screaming swirling stars are descending. He can feel it. He is ready.

he says he'll see her
the hospice nurse