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American Air A friend writes from Brooklyn: white cinders smaller than snowflakes. Dust. Soon enough, a filthy wind will blow me out of my skin. What I know for sure is a short list: in October, there is no warning of the weather except the weather. A sudden breeze, desolate as a mother-in-law’s eye in December, crows winter-over wearing only black feathers; In August, the Persiads flare into the atmosphere, into September. for B.T.
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