Passing you at dawn,
me in the dim light, fading
in, Venus hung low.
Would you rise from snow
like the hare, darting, sudden?
Or more like the bear
grumping out of sleep,
weeks long den dozing slumber?
Wearing red snow boots
is enough for me
sometimes, is a grand signal
of my place in things.
March 5, 2011 4:47 AM
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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.