She steps out onto the front stoop
to inspect the sky, a stone-grey wall.
Once breath is spoken,
its frozen cloud remains suspended,
waiting only to drop and crash into splintered crystals.
Flecks of prism color could be real or imagined
scattered,
splattered.
Those tiny frigid messengers
of an impending Winter Storm
bounce,
dance
off the ground with timeless motion
transforming as frosted sprites.
They become content with intention to
tease and taunt the speaker
to retreating indoors.
Miniscule white bites convince her moment
to retrace steps back across the threshold.
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