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Musings of a tightrope walker...
Why do some evenings have a different smell?
Why do some evenings have a different taste?
Why do some evenings have a different silence?
Are catching my eye
On countless blinking crystals of snow
Frozen songs of dreaming cicadas…
The land, the dormant lake
All visible in silvery white
Trees, serene and somber
Standing darker than their shadows…
I feel the ghosts of the cold
Conversing with the spirits of the land
Fourfold around the house...
In the morning we’ll find
Their agreements written down on our windows,