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The Winthrup Hill Dance The summer loved us then, wind and woodthrush clicking in the knee high grasses; but now it is October scattering in the reeds, and needles of broken pine pinch the wet ground. In red faced memories, the lighted edges of the dance hall fold into the curves of an old wet wood, a rush of papered stairs empties into a bumbling river of boys leaning on their crooked bow ties and wine colored songs toss themselves like shipwrecked water over the curling shapes of curious dances; but the place where your shoulder falls and your stare rises to continue, the slick haired boys are careful not to look.
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