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The thrush has given up on singing and hunger guides its ice-pick head to the few open patches where the tiniest of lives can be tweezed from stones and snow rinds. Little avalanches slump and rumble from the roofs as jackdaws stuff nesting twigs down chimneys. Icicles drip as the sun rises. Violet-blue snow is chased through with flashes of syrupy sunlight. It's still cold and there's more snow here than during winter proper – even with the clocks jumping a heartbeat into summertime. Where? It may be beautiful, but people have trouble coming to terms with an occupying weather that refuses to make terms with them. Settled white lawns are boot-deep. Heaps around cars and pathways are like archaeological excavations.
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