A pheasant in the air looks prehistoric, surprised it has wings, surprised that clumsiness can take one into a neighboring county, where the corn is possibly greener. I shouldn't say that. Rather, that agreeable times survive on lonely Wisconsin porches, screened-in or open to the rapturous intrusions of lightning bugs. Or later, after a thunderstorm, a confluence of odors: honeysuckle, timothy, gasoline, taking the mind off wings.

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