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8 January on the Pond Iced in, a goldfish floats, eye open, nudging a rock—gills, fins, orange scales lapping the sides. We all winter down, glass-eyed. Question: Will that fish twist and leap when the cold breaks? Hunch and stare fixed as granite. But who knows? When April nods to the weeders and planters, will that fish shiver, nose to tail, let the scales breathe? Can the sun call back an eye, a heart? ...

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