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Senor Saguaro was a cactus, a thirty-foot-tall giant that towered over the toolshed in the backyard. It had two arms high on the trunk. One stuck straight out; the other made a right turn upward, as if waving “adios!” The waving arm was green from the elbow up; all else was
brown, dead. Much of the thick, leathery skin along the trunk had come loose and crumpled in a heap about the massive foot: Senor Saguaro had lost his pants. Only his ribs, thumb-thick vertical timbers, held him up.
What is personification?