First a muted sunrise.


Dark clouds streak across the canvas

we call the sky.


A golden orb is obscured.


Wild field grasses sweep across the open scrub

scattering the last of winter’s seeds.


The wind picks up.


We are subsumed by a momentary maelstrom.


Thick white flakes

barely brush the scrub.


In moments the ground is bare

and parched once more.


I am left wondering

if the snow visited us at all.

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