på grene sidder løgnhalsen og                                                                           stikker                          til kornkuglerne ved siden af                                                  rødkælken                          snart er de begge for fede til at sidde                                                   på så ung                                                                            en gren foran køkkenvinduet hos farmor                          sneen her får lov                          til at                                                    smelte                                                   på en anden nådig måde end i  byen, hvor jeg sjapper                          bagtrappen til og får våde  sokker                           om natten når jeg                                                                             ryger, dét uden farve er                                                                             gråt                                                                            her men hos farmor får sneen                           lov til at                           smelte                           i sit eget  tempo al den tid, der  er  dér al den tid  der  stables sirligt og                           lyden af smør                           på en pande                                                    og duften af det                                                                            og bækken                                                                            der fyldes af                                                   sneen, som den                                                                                                     smelter  …

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