They are out there somewhere still, three, sometimes four, figures and a dog who has long gone, gone past the snake on the path, gone past all the wounds of time, leaving snapshots of a good dog all the while the children howl full wind
They knew no shelter from the start
Miles of lonely nothing
No stones, bread crumbs, or birds to
Guide them back
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Hi, Jana, thanks for your comment. I do swim all winter, but the post you commented on was a poem and not intended as cold-water swimming advice.