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Doing Nothing

By Michael T. Young / November 9, 1998



It rains and hardens into ice.

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Clear, rippling streamers streak the windows.

Trees drip with slim, transparent nails.

One obstinate car passes

ignorant of the changing streetlight.

Traces of fish scales glimmer,

cracking under the feet of someone

balancing his long way into silence.

The wind blows one unfrozen drop

down a stop sign. The wind subsides.

The water stiffens, solidifies,

and the slow preparation ends.