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Light hits my heart and the thin branches with the same promise. People leaning on people leaning. The light hits them on the left and they are leaning right. The branches slowly wave swaying closer and closer to stillness, swaying past stillness. They move in jagged circles like a kid taking his first steps, falling, getting up again, someone not yet certain. They lean on one another. Light fades. Stagnant lean right. The sky is bored of this dance. The black slope of a roof is more vivid than those thin sticks, tangled in the thinnest parts of one another. Scene continues. I can't look until I admit I can't look. I'm waiting. Like the snow on the rooftops- absolutely certain, unable to be scattered by thin branch life. The snow has its own base- flat rooftops- a spot in the sun. It is as though it will never melt. Let your eyes rest there. The branches will all grow leaves. But in this moment, let your eyes be. Let snow be what it came to be for you. You can choose which window to look out of, of the two, so do.
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