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He came in the morning. He was scraggly and scratchy and old. He lay down in the garden next to the tomatoes and he did not move. He did not chase the squirrels, nor did he look in the direction of the birds, for they had disappeared in honor of his visit. He was old and perhaps his best days were behind him. Then he looked at me through the window with the most amazing eyes, like those of a weary wanderer and I longed to speak to him, if just to ask: what if…
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