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Huge, silent-moving like
white dreams hungering for
the yester-prey,
what will they do when
the ice is gone?
Will they move south, wear
brightly-coloured sports shirts,
drink Coca-Cola?
Will they sleep in
cardboard boxes, beg for
small change?
Or will they, knowing how
things end, swim on
and on and on
into the darkness
when the ice is gone?
By
Russell Hoban
