Full Punxsutawney Moon
Three days later, early, certainly
well before sunrise, after the graspers
and flashers have packed up and gone,
after the national news has had its say,
under a staring, starry, cut-glass sky
and a moon shivering its way toward
moonset, the groundhog steps warily out,
its snout in snow a foot or more deep.
Relieved, at last, of the press of local
press and the tyranny of network tourists
he lounges in the full moon's light,
each icy whisker distinct, resplendent,
its shadow a mere matter of fact
on otherwise unbroken snow.
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