Lyn Lifshin Horses In the Snow if you are still, you can hear ice crystals move like beads in blackness, before you see them stand. Under a snow maple their legs lift in the ballet step, pas de chevalle, shake the cold off, huddling like children or the memory of children, shapes dark as the space snow angels leave, their hooves an angel's tiara. Light glosses the grey as steam from the horses rises.

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