The ice is melting in the morning sun. Huge sheets float down the
Saint Laurent. One, a crisp rectangular shape, straight edges and
Forty five degree angles, looks factory made. Theo relocates
A playground, snowbound since Autumn. Instinct leads the migrant bird
Back to his favourite slide. In the same way he’ll note the site of
A passing truck, and is puzzled to find that source of pleasure
Missing the next time he’s there. Yet to learn that pleasure is less
Intractable than nature. [It seemed as though the snow, waist deep
A week ago, threadbare today, was going. Then, just this second,
Through my window, a fretful blizzard pounces on the night sky.]
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