Cross-Country
I follow laborious lanes, alleys of yesterday’s
skis, finding intermittently
prints–paws cupping blue,
sharp-petaled as
pressed-flowers–a coyote who preferred my flattened slants
to the deep snow, even sticking to
the loops of my backtracks–
I imagine that same blue
siding his moonlit lope, and despite the warmth
of fellow toil,
shiver.
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A belated blue 55 for Real Toads.
ManicDDaily 
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