The twinkling of snow on a bare branch.
A bird rests, then flutters away, and a smattering of snow falls to the ground.
I listen intently to the silence.
Fire in my lungs, spasms up and down the legs.
Out here is where I need to lay down, rest, forever. I keep on walking until my final collapse.
Which a part of me wanted it to have been, should have been, today. No more glorious a viewpoint before stepping into my grave.
Yet death did not come on this day.
