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50 Sweetgum in January So this is winter’s toll, spread across the map of sky: all the lovely roads are deadends without astonishments we hoped they’d bring. Trafficked or bare, these bold determinations limb the uncertain air in shapes we know too well: bonescape pearled in light. Line after line of scrawl, a script no one can read. Little birds flock to crooks and turns, each tilt 51 or bob a shrug against the cold. Blink of come and go. And now the cardinals, one high, one low, bright as the earth’s last two berries. ...

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