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Fox prints and deer pock the snow

over the grass where we danced.

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Our picnic table hosts banquets of snow.

Canvas chairs tip white onto white.

Skeletal weeds poke through ice.

The fig bush bears a snow harvest.

Beyond the shiver of beach, crabs

have shuffled deep in the channel,

fish fled under ice, or south. I don't

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adjust to this change of season, still

long for summer, as for you, utterly.

Then a hundred swans avalanche to the cove.