And all the trees are frosted, pale pastel shadows of themselves, every leaf, needle, and thin branch encrusted in tiny white crystals.  The ground is hard, icy.  The air is heavy with cold, creeping and grey.

But when a rare ray of sunlight shines through, it lights up the trees like giant, bright columns of silver, sparkling beacons of immense size and stature, and I have never seen anything so beautiful (even though my gloveless hands hurt from the chill and my breath turns my scarf damp against my nose).

Standing among the delicately frosted trees, I wonder, how can people hate the wild?


One thought on “frosted

  1. Love it, Heather. And though I figure it’s just an entry of your own, it’d make a good beginning of a story – – like, maybe she finds out why people hate the wild?

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