Rebecca

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“Rye?” a neighbor asked, watching me scatter seeds. “Clover,” I said. She looked at me. “You’re planting clover?” “For the honeybees,” I said. “Last summer there was a big ball of bees up in the crepe myrtle next to my garbage cans,” she told me. “It took a whole can of Raid to kill them.”
Late Migrations: A Natural History of Love and Loss
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