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This morning

Hoarfrost flowers on the stubble, and catches first light as it glints off the snow-filled furrows.

This white

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beneath the cloud-shadow's slow blue

is a privacy turning outward, unfolding -

like the shape of water overflowing

a leaf-clogged gutter - how it freezes

in the moment of its fall.

This morning.

This quiet as the streetlight clicks off,

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and the gray horse, its mane hatched in ice slivers,

tears at the bent, shagged stalks.