The atmosphere is like winter Too hushed and barren for the bellow of a living being that breathes out— unequal to the perpetual gasp winter takes And takes until you make out the ribs of the deer shakily crossing the street where it thought it beheld bushes still clinging to warmth the sun has so little to give, if you saw the deer, not a speck of ghost floating in space, as all Winters are haunted by sounds that are muffled, like little shrieks of children concealed beneath castles of pillows and blankets, muting the whole world save rustling twigs swaying and howling wind that animals cower from. The rivers are still and coated in ice, as if they never existed. Snow, that great assassin forbids gravity to yell, and as you walk on the low rumble of compacting snow you venture across the gods’ new white canvas a single crow caws through dead air the last stain of life aside from you, your hot chocolate mug burning your fingers but clutching it close to keep warm, staring out the window at millions of snowflakes stark against the night sky, yellow through the light of a street lamp. Those snowflakes must look exactly how it looked when the world came together as stardust shone against black space, through the streetlamp of a dying star The world is not unlike you stepping into the single patch of sun the red skin of your face tingling from the warmth of the breath that was stolen from your lungs when you stepped out into the air the first moment of a morning where frost crystalizes on tree leaves, and instead of hiding the world, outlines it in brilliant white chalk. It is similar to feeling for the first time— the heat on your skin: like stumbling into love when you were alone in the sharp cold for such a bitter long time your eyes beginning to close, warmth seeping away into the snow and melting into the earth, where you hope it will reach its center.