missing haiku

twenty eight degrees,
but thoughts of you warm enough
for this white morning.

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Cycles

Unmistakable,
the scent of death coiled
along this trail,

beneath juniper
and parchment leaves.
We speak our fragile tales

as we pedal over
the muted landscape,
past the animal’s

remains.  More effort now
to see the quiet beauty
in what is passing –

but beauty nonetheless,
these little deaths
and fallen branches.