Blizzard Notes

 I DON’T blame the kettle drums—they are hungry.

And the snare drums—I know what they want—they are empty too.

And the harring booming bass drums—they are hungriest of all.
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 .
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The howling spears of the Northwest die down.

The lullabies of the Southwest get a chance, a mother song.

A cradle moon rides out of a torn hole in the ragbag top of the sky.

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