Snow blown into strange shapes
By wind that cuts glass.
There are coyotes on these horizons.
Owls staying low to avoid the dead giveaway
Of giant shadows
Coming down on top of scurried feet.
There are coyotes on these horizons.
And they stop and turn,
Looking at you and me
As we huddle together for each other's warmth
And stumble down roads
Impassable when wet.
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