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False Spring


Even the birds slept in today. 

A blanket of snow an inch or so thick covers the ground. It’s peaceful, I think as I christen the white path in front of me.

Yesterday was so warm. The ice and snow had melted, making every drive and gully a conduit for water. Birds were frolicking on damp ground—drunk on a false Spring.

Come dusk, moisture was in the air. There was a different kind of sky.  Chalky grey, like gouache so thick. Not a star in sight.

I could have predicted it, this snow.

Besides, yesterday—I saw my shadow. It was so big.

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