once again winter chill
one bird black on a gray skeletal tree
gives call to the pale morning sky
along the fence patches of white spot the grass
not snow not yet but paint from earlier in the year
things aren’t always what they seem
no murder nor unkindness disturbed the hour
no message of untimely grief
most slept on, undisturbed by the solitary greet
some few walkers were all that heard
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