Boot Days

Sun removed the chill
of frost that iced over will.
Brown boots crunch through snow,
cold cars pass by slow.

Feet cross those snowy old roads;
blackbirds sing and chrip.
Crows are perched up high
on an aged, wiry white pine.
They croak and swoop low.

Brown boots slide and step.
Ice and slush. Not quite there yet.
Steam glazes the sky.
Hello and goodbye,
then winter wanders away,
and life trickles on.

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