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Jane Ebihara





    to the fog that softens sharp edges

    shields the distance clings to the darkness


    to the Long Night Moon that hasn’t yet

    finished its shift


    to the deer who forage these woods

    and turn their backs to me—the one

    they are supposed to fear


    to the wind that whips the pines 

    interrupts the shadows    then stops

    as if to catch another breath


    to the birds I know are here

    but shelter in silence

    high in these trees     


    to the hot cup in my hand 

    the blaze of the fire    the warm 

    socks on my feet and a new year near


    I give thanks 


    to the berries on my neighbor’s holly

    that squirrel sprawled on the split rail fence

    the frost on the lawn

    and the contrail of a jet overhead     


    where someone is leaving    

    where someone is coming home

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