I don't blame the kettle drums - they are hungry.
And the snare drums - I know what they want - they are empty too.
And the harring booming bass drums - they are hungriest of all.
The howling spears of the Northwest die down.
The lullabies of the Southwest get a chance, a mother song.
A cradle moon rides out of a torn hole in the ragbag top of the sky.
- Blizzard Notes by Carl Sandburg
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