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In new snow we learn of the white-footed mouse
up from the warmth between weedthatch and drift
to wander the surface in moonlight
pausing to dine upon goldenrod seeds
before leaping away in common panic
or perhaps in uncommon joy,
we can decide:
either the flight of the merciless owl,
or the furred pleasures of its own kind,
depending upon our ultimate mood
and the strength of our need to conjure an end.
