Snow falls on cold December ground,
Trees are bones against the white.
The only sound:
My boots crunching through frosty ice flakes.

I stop.

The world stops.

Breath plumes from my mouth,
Self-made fog.
Then, the chill air burns,
Fresh,
As I inhale.

I want to sing.

But I can’t find the right song.

So I listen:
Hush.
Snow falls.
And it is music more fitting
Than any.

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