Deep cold, deep snow. The foot
tall dogs smash along, crusted in their groove like the plow trains of Banff. I
take the lead to spare the geriatric Corgi. This lasts until she shoulders her
way past, unable to bear the tedium of my fastest pace for another mortal
moment. Which is, after all, seven moments to her.
White birch branch carries
a foot of whiter snow—stark
as paper, this world.
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