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By Cornelia B. Curtis / January 18, 1983

Snow clouds are piling up the western sky Like drifting sheep bellwethered to the fold, Whose thick and woolly fleece foretells The onslaught of the winter's deepening cold. The wind is pushing hard against the flock Driving them onward down the sunlit sky; The golden sun with quartering shafts of warmth Makes a pretense that winter is not nigh.

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