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She sniffs the poison air

cautious as spring's birth

nose as always the first.

A soft shoot of tongue tastes

ash on the globe of winds,

sap rises to her eye’s bud.

Each fine bristle of her fur

stirs as the planet’s balance

tilts, turning again to the sun.

Before a paw print forward

she glances back, a return

into her shroud of a burrow.

deep in a star-spark of eyes

left behind in the darkness,

so much depends upon this.

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