we foppish, bickering featherbaskets; Shh--
I hear whispers: don't look now, but-
we tumble and slide
away from the dumb glaze of a soppy, ancient cloud
wooly as an old, dry buffalo, panting
lonely and cold after her herd
(she hasn't met that frosted, pulpy pit-pat
-SPLAT her fellows found when They rolled down
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