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So the snow comes down from the sky
through an invisible sieve, hissing. 
Water - like a woman - in so many states, so many
attires.

The birds have all gone, and so has
the neighing of horses. Cold.
The crisp, muzzled silence the night’s only sound.
Homes sleeping.

Frayed blankets of white alight
from radiant indigo clouds.
Unsettled solitude bites into them and they become
unraveled.

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