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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