Icicles hang above my front door
encased in the flame,
of the bright sun
shimmering inside them
so that they begin to drip
even in the 10 degree weather.
The street is quiet under the
deep mantle of snow
with high banks piled all along it.
The bright blue jay flashes down to the seeds,
while the slatey junco hops among them,
even that raucous fellow oddly silent.
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