Cold Shoulder

by Shelby Faulconer

The chills straighten the spines of
      exposed trees.
 Naked branches warm with a
      layer of ice, granted thus by humidity’s
      last attempt to leave water droplets
      on grass blades, already a feet under
And yet, the tree understands,
      standing encased by moisture,
      turn quick by temperature
      to frost-plated statues, erected by
      silent melodies of winter.
A visible sigh, and one full appreciative
apprehension to this spectacle of life.

Marine biology and mathematics. You could say I grew up in New Hampshire, but the past two years in Alaska have been exponential.

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