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November
by Brianna Burke
The snow falls, a quiet and peaceful storm
Coruscated flakes against the orange glow of the light-polluted night sky
The stacks of snow create a melody of crunches under boots, piles that are knee-high
That is November to me
The Aurora Borealis dance, the Arctic atmosphere its studio
I hold your hand beneath the symphony of purple and green
The distant traffic does not intervene
That is November to me
Years pass, each month becoming more obscure and uncanny
With distance from a Northern home comes cacophony
Disorderly, out of key
It is no longer November to me
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