Tonight the storms that have marched
Across the eastern seaboard and further
Rests softly here
On this outpost of the eastern shore.
A thin white blanket lies under cloud cover,
Enough to reflect
The light of the hidden moon into a quiet,
Low gray light that covers the flat fields
And peeps through
The tall inky stands of pines. I walk about
Feeling how the wind whushes from the north
Breathing cold gusts
Across my face, while a faraway shush
Echoes in my ears. Coming on midnight is ever
A magical time
But with the bite of ice, now seems older
And harsher. I would say even our dogs
Have this awareness,
But, perhaps not so. They relish the crisp
Crunch of snow regardless of
The hour of day.
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