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The Cold Season

Two or three times a year

The winters hit me

Scare away all the meat and bones

                        Those fat wooly cryptids

                        That keep me full for weeks

And all that’s left

Are roots buried beneath rock and snow

I could chase my preferred meal

But I’d collapse before I ever saw

A herd again

So the bitter roots

Most of which keep my brain

Alive in the most rudimentary way

Are all there is today


From the look of the sky

And the page on the calendar

They will be my only food

For many days

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