Overnight the spoors of snow had sown the fields and lined the winter branches white
It lay heavy wet, like a fragile crop that should be rushed to market
Lest it be wasted
But like manna, it has no shelf life
No possibility of air miles

And by afternoon, it is already old
And the surface of the hills, like an old mushroom
Once a splendid pregnant puffball
Is now shrunken and hollow
Leaching into the cold old ground.


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