Bitter cold. An hour before dawn, something crunches briefly in the brush and is still, as if turning over in its sleep.
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Bitter cold. An hour before dawn, something crunches briefly in the brush and is still, as if turning over in its sleep.
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In the dark the first rooster crows,
magpies answer, tonight I am cold
I thaw in the steam of the shower.
Kettle hums. Light finds the sky.
http://crankymango.blogspot.com/2012/01/chill.html