Fiction | March 01, 1996

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The snow is delicate and knee high.  It is cotton candy in my mouth, too fleeting to satisfy but enjoyable just the same.  I bend in mid stride and shovel the powder with my gloved hand.  With this motion I leave a smooth and straight gully that strikes me as the most perfect consequence of my effort, conspicuous in its complete lack of fault.  I pack the snow against the roof of my mouth and suck it of its moisture.  The remains trickle down my throat.

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