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  • I moved to Brooklyn last April. Visible scars of a wan and weary winter still welted; audible woes whinged from mouths of bodies bound by bundling. This winter, just once (for real) it has snowed, in October. And so Saturday, finding myself in front of a moderately late-winter-ed window in Minnesota, my eyes bulged at the beauty.

    Each icicle unique? Yes, always, and yet collectively complementary in this case, as though arranging themselves in an impressionistic interpretation of the scene they screened: building, branching, and bending as the boughs of pines and birch beyond them. Coincidence? Kismet? One perspective? No matter... just perfect.
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