The only pure white that’s left,
Now the snow has gone,
A single egret,
A colder shade of pale,
The colour of the word bereft,
Or absence, or the word alone,
Then, suddenly, rising up from beside the river,
As if their sole purpose were to dispel such negativity,
Five roe, thin leg’d and frail,
Momentarily dancing the stiffness from their limbs,
As if before King Solomon the prophet,
Then, as is their proclivity,
Disappearing, arrows from a quiver.
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