THE WINNOWING

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Their tiny ears fold under small broken sycamores

Buried under the uneasy sounds that silence makes

Locked and beholden to the sway of meandering roads

Their stilts carry old carcasses further and further still

Until finally blanketed under footsteps of driven snow

Their toes curl inward as frozen veins begin to stiffen

And the only lives left breathing in the cold drifting

Are those left behind in the icy lake of digested burning

 

 

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