December Second
Just before dark
smoke from the chimney
drifts down among the trees
in pale wide ribbons,
and puffy juncos dig around
the red oaks for what
squirrels sometimes leave.
Hushed by low smooth sky,
I-75 recedes like
descending sleep.
Lights on, I watch
you through the window
warming by the stove,
holding your breath
for the first flakes
of snow.
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