Plow
The plow drones through before dawn blinking amber, like an owl robbed by a cat strike of one eye and made to search for dinner face-aslant. Upstairs, that same light circumnavigates gray walls, accelerates through corners, as if afraid of being captured like the rings trapped by the pair of swollen knuckles dozing there beneath Egyptian cotton sheets. The forecast didn’t auger this much snow, as it also sometimes fails to warn of cats with razors mounted on their front paws. A renewed search for a missing doll awaits, ideal proportions and runway face dropped from a backpack somewhere...
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