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December in Missouri

First Prize

December in Missouri and the Angel of Frost has come.

I see Summer's patchwork of fields faded--

Into a unity of color: The ploughed ground,

Raped of growth at harvest time,

Can no longer hold the brown of Spring rains.

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Now it seems only to reflect

A sky of grayness--as does the nearby meadow.

A meadow eaten alive months before by cows.

Still, now and then, the traveler may pass

Ruins of an already forgotten splender--

Cornfields and hayfields,

Their growth left to the hunger of a rotter called Time

And January snows.

This is the hawk's feudal domain.

A lone bird flying at midday in search of a rabbit

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