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WALKING INTO A STORY

Over the wood in silence falls the snow,
a thick blanket which does not warm
the wretched multitude of oaks.
Well wrapped-up, I cross it on foot:
Where the path was has stayed covered
and the only trace that remains is my steps.
I come upon a fallen nest, a very large nest,
as though it were the cradle of a dead child.
Now, to go back the way I have come I need
my own footprints, but the snow
is falling and keeps silently wiping them out.
A gust of wind sets up a disturbance
and the nest is dragged along, bowling
through dumb, cold weather, with no paths.

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