They take to flight
at dawns first light
as though the bright redemption might
disable their
command of air
to ground them here without a prayer,
while christening the snow encrusted town
with fluffy trinkets of the blackest down
which flutter in a howling winter wind
that further revolutions will rescind.
Mired in this never ending drift
I quickly grasp the beauty of their gift.
Are You Reading Me?
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