Poetry

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Everything softened, edgeless, peacefully geometric:the fence posts wearing elbows of white, the pool cover snow-smothered, the bird feeder topped with a delicate hat,no birds attempting a December refueling.The truth—it was always the squirrels who ate best, plumping themselves on what they stole. I’ve seen them hurtle their tight little bodiesfrom my shingles, latching to the …

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