No one hears the snow
accumulate on lawns,
leaving a smooth place
for signature of tracks
open to daylight
melting footprints,
toward night when chill
solidifies small history.
Is there a beginning traceable
to points that turn to line,
a shapely flow in
recollection of the blooms
thin sheet of grassblades,
birds as if by chance
in mind upon a limb?
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