The winter winds blow silently across the plains carving patterns in the snow. The whipperwill whippers in the chill of winters cold grip. The trees are bare and skeletal; branches reaching to the sky. The icicles grow slowly as dew drips and freezes on their icy surface. The snow hare ventures from its burrow, blending into the cold silent white world.
fallen bodies lie in the bay
limbs shorn off
they float
some free, some in chains
enough that you can nearly walk across the bay
I remember
even in death
they are deadly
Shifting, rolling, moving
Crushing.
There was a sound that I can only describe as not being completely unlike the sound of a tinfoil phonebook being ripped in half and a flash of a color that reminded me of lime green tuxedo I'd worn to a costume party once. As my vision returned, I realized my couch was now on fire.
