Approaching from the west, at fifty paces, I spy a twisted culvert half-buried in the snow.
Only I think it's an errant Canada goose, struck by a car perhaps, or shot from the sky. Its beak is pointing up and is open in mute mid-honk, cut off from its migratory impulse or lost to its goslings or too late for its calling as a holiday feast.
Closer, now, ten paces, I see it's only metal.
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