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			Chattel Dance
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			At the village heart, where the standpipe is, water empties into searing air, mirages ripple, and a little blackbird, a little black memory-bird, hops around, pecking at pebbles and sipping at the water drops before they fall and disappear into the parched earth's yawn. He flits between the feet of forgotten people as they wait in line to fill the buckets on their heads.
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