White Death

A melodic warble, that of the last autumn birds, meandered through the stinging cold air. Its sorrowful tune drifted in and out of spindly tree branches, branches that were once teeming with leaves and life. Not only this melody reminisced about warmer seasons, but other meager details showed nostalgia, too. The elderly, cracked trees swooning in the harsh winter breezes, the adventurous squirrels scrambling one last time through browning grass, and what seemed like the most summer-loving forest-dweller of all, the flowers, wilting away at the hands of the white death. Soon, dew drops will turn to icicles, as well as rain turn to snow, and fall to winter.


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