finished

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 10, 2016

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Submitted: August 10, 2016

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The air is crisp. The only way winter can graze the skin.
The night is a flurry of noise. Something banging against tin.

The roof of the barn it must be. The dark cat's eyes glow in the dark.
The horses stir at my cruching of my fett. In the night they look so stark.


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