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Paul Hunter

April 4

Cold spurt. I walk hunched in my winter coat, head drawn—turtle-like—as deep between my shoulders as biology will allow. These are the final pulls of winter, an old limpy dog proving he can still tug with the young seasons. The icy wind brings tears to my eyes which I sleeve aside. A grackle flies past with a white ribbon flapping from its beak. Another victory for winter, winning a scrap at a time.

after winter
garden flower pot cracked open
like a blossom