BY HARRY WAITZMAN
My fingers tingle, my mouth smokes.
Snow drifts surround Congers Lake.
Hungry muskrats lick their paws and sniff.
Two fishermen cut holes in the ice, light fires
and camp on white grass.
Mown by the sun, blades of slick grass melt.
Mud puddles on the short, rivelets run.
After one thunderstorm, another claps loud
and wakes the crab grass on South Mountain.
Pickerel swim in open waters to minnows.
Skunks browse openly like politicians and fear
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