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Madison Letters



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Dear Ones - on the lakepath, runnels

of snowmelt, the bare willow branches

hazed with sun, only a few ice fishermen

still standing out on the ice, looking

into the fog on the lake's horizon.

Open water at the marsh inlet - two mallards

bobbing their heads at each other, a jostle

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of other voices - the deep red of dogwood stems,

bright clusters of highbush cranberry,

black spatter of old leaves and crow.

My body asking to leap, to run -

everything breaking up, moving, speaking.