One slow, black horse alone in a snowy pasture. It’s almost daybreak and the smoke from last night’s close banked fires still moves among icy branches of elms and silver maples. Well, it’s better than days of rain, though it’s just November, not even Thanksgiving. All this novelty of snow stacked twigs and icy pilings in the river shallows, creaky early morning steps, dragon‑cloudy breath, helps us harden our selves for winter. We know before long the smog won’t clear by noon,won’t clear for weeks, know months from now, all hunched and bent, we’ll still be trudging into black and white windbeaten silence. Thick coat ruffled, head to snow, that same black mare will pace her pasture, while the road crew piles up crud on every fencepost — the gray snow, the carbon, the soot.
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