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Sunday, February 12, 2012

It is still winter

   A crisp chill  unfelt as brushes a cell sweeps it,  blowing through the night air, a moments rest atop a rolled collar, to fall upon a brim to trickle down a shoulder roll to a sleeve, rest upon a glove. Again airborne, floating, unhurried, unbound, adrift, disintegrating, distant  from whence, dimming passage, edges curl, furl on a breeze of the night, again, rest upon alien landscape, amid flecks, shards and fragments of a day passed. To the curb, to the street, to repose with discard, dropped, thrown derelicts, the fallen from the confront, the worn weary remnants  reminder of day done,  time past, light spent. A fleck of humanity unmissed, unwanted, unneeded, unnoticed, unnecessary, now  afloat into the night on echoes of the waves of a day rippling round tomorrow, remembering yesterday not quite finished with today.

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