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July 27 2005

Text By Catherine Jamieson

If you could cut stairs from snowbanks they would look like this. Along their wending path the spindles sparkle into ice and steal from the sun a brilliant white; from the cold a brittle blue. Standing here at the bottom, gazing into the inky pinpoint in the far distance, I wonder, did warm hands distort the rails? Would we find footprints blurred into the stairs? What's at the top?