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By Noah Hurd
Mom said it dropped
to 5 degrees this morning.
The snow is still here, piled
along the roadside, dark red and hard.
It's been here for weeks.
It never gets below 40
in Mexico City, I tell her. I live in
an unheated apartment.
Most everyone does.
Heat is relative, though,
and we too feel the
change of season. We wear sweaters,
sometimes. While she's listening
there's a knock and Cassie barks
in the background, a tinny sound
high and distant. I separate myself
from the sound
in the line.
My eyes scan the room, my green plants,
and the white tile floor.
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Document last modified on: 12/03/2006