there and back again Madeline Bruessow i grew up surrounded by cornfields lush stalks in summer, crepe-paper husks in winter. in the bay i was an island. trees leered above me. snow clouds were claustrophobia. corn stalks a wall. i thought a yard is never big enough. the snow always too thick. ice too slippery. dare me: what is beyond that line of trees, beneath those waves, past the frost-hardened roots. but after a long trek home, nothing smells quite as sweet as a golden field of Michigan maize on a firefly-lit evening.
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