Ever fabled winter, hoary frost dressing coats like so much
mud in the swap, had raised it's head once again. Icicles clung
precariously to life, dangling as if a foal-child's afterthought
of decoration, shot through with swirls and eddies of mud and
dirt. Breathe in too deeply and not only would the damp cold
potentially seer your lungs, but too sharp a noise would bring
nature's temporary stalagtites shooting down to fall on the
unsuspecting, bruising at best, deadly at their worst.
Branches hung low with the unaccustomed weight, sparkling
and glimmering in the feeble sunlight with killer beauty. Draped
low, some resembled willows shorn of their leaves and desire
to live; others yet simply shrivled up on themselves, huddling
for warmth and attmpting to conserve what energy remained.
Chasing a bunbun, the snap of a brittle, fallen branch released
another icicle from it's tenuous grasp on life. Falling at a speed
of light and at a snail's pace simultaniously, he dropped down
to shield.
Nature's knife pierced through to his core, chilling. Frost bitten
hearts rarely survived the kiss of ice so deadly. Would that
winter would stay fabled instead of realised in so truely a fashion.
