In Transition

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Forests of black spider webs
branch out over the pale winter sky.
Frosted powder dusts the limbs
like a morning dew clinging to the threads.

Power lines hang above the fence,
like music staves;
birds plotted sporadically along the wires,
quavers with wings outstretched.

The ground remains frozen
but the frost is melting,
Pulling back across the grass
like the ebbing tide of the ocean.





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