Rolling the trash to the street, Monday night, cold rain

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Rolling the trash to the street, Monday night, cold rain

In the neighbor’s security spotlight, activated by my foraging,
The rain is turning to snow. No longer just the path of a motion

But the substance of a season. No longer a man in the dark
Putting out trash but, striding through the door, carrier

Of a million fragile messages of light, change, gravity.

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