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Boreas

Boreas The broom sedge hissing by the fence, the cows walking heads down toward the south pasture, a starling mending the raveling hem of a shawl lifting, warping above the hills— I felt the cold burn, but Daddy was freezing from the inside out. Warily I stepped around his bluster: I couldn’t do a damned thing right. Praying for his angry soul, I didn’t understand that every word was like a match smoking in the wind, the old god roaring over the Blue Ridge. JOHN THOMAS YORK http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081

Abstract

The broom sedge hissing by the fence, the cows walking heads down toward the south pasture, a starling mending the raveling hem of a shawl lifting, warping above the hills— I felt the cold burn, but Daddy was freezing from the inside out. Warily I stepped around his bluster: I couldn’t do a damned thing right. Praying for his angry soul, I didn’t understand that every word was like a match smoking in the wind, the old god roaring over the Blue Ridge. JOHN THOMAS YORK

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Nov 10, 2016

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