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Speaking in Tongues

On the day it finally snowed, we drove home 
with the dog licking the window
                                 in long, loud slurps 

as if a spring had welled up in the glass 
as if the pane 
              had become a cistern.   
                                                     
twenty degree weather and his tongue 
didnít stick, described 
                      steamy trails on the window-
                                            
pane as we chided him,
No, bad boy!  
         What did we miss? Some condensation 

grander than breath?  There was nothing 
beyond the farm fences 
                      that afternoon, beyond the fat snow 
sliding by the car, the fog and winter pasture, 
the dog's blurry reflection 
                            in the frozen glass.

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