Illusion

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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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