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Gone is December's method,
Practiced under the gauze
Of coming storms
And long mornings, finally
Duped into evening's silent coup.

Now, January,
Chilled cradle to summer's unborn,
Giving way to the hiss
Of slick, cold waters
And their emerald rumors,
Of rocks and shadows
And silvery ghosts in big, new worlds.

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Sam A. Flanagan

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