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Cold Snap

At 20 below, ice forms

long clear crystalline

fingers that grip frigid eaves,

knuckled talons of winter.

Snow becomes pale grit

light as air, dry as sand,

weightlessly swirling on

western winds.

Tree limbs shatter and crash

with dull thuds onto glimmering

white blankets that cover hardened

ground, splintering into shards.

The sun returns,

an orange blazing fire ball

slung low in the southeast,

and I emerge, thankful,

when the mercury

reaches zero.


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