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Post by Don Schaeffer on Apr 23, 2009 7:52:36 GMT -5
Cold beings,whisps of fright, whom ice kills, I see your shells, leftovers of your feedings hidden in the silk, packages we fear to open. We scrape you and drop you to the dead grass after snow has seeped away and risen to the clouds. As the sun brings camouflage to the stiffened structures of your lives, time brings new hunters among the leaves, new traps and pouncings.
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