Hoar Frost Cooking by Rob Queen

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The scent is there when you ponder it
It tucks itself away like a tiny rabbit
Scurrying in fear for the big bad wolf
Whose hunger for it cannot hide
The hovering scent from the snouts
Of pigs nor muzzles of mules
In the crisp crisp air that almost
Freezes the little hairs on the inside
Of the nose and make the
Pines and smoke and wintry spice
Crackles inside where the very scent bursts
The keen will wink an eye and say to us
That is the scent Laonís snow
Before it falls and lays his world low