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The clouds drift low in the winter sky,

with no direction of their own,

pushed by the wind past the contrail lines,

streaking white where the 'planes have flown.

I watch as they glide from my vantage point -

stable, resting on the ground,

wishing I moved as they, but my frozen joints

hold me still; tight with ice I am bound.

The sun's rays pour down through the foggy haze,

showing me somewhere bathed in light,

and when spring comes again to lengthen the days,

I'll be poised, my wings readied for flight.

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