First Snow

ice queen“Come now,” says December to me, her voice soft as snowflakes, crystal eyes spying my raised eyebrow, sharp ears catching my grumble. “Surely it’s only fair? After all, it’s only 5 months of the year…”

I grimace, thinking of grit and filthy crusts of old mounds of snow, but forgive this fresh and timely dusting—it is pretty, I admit—even as I swipe off the slush from the windshield and try to avoid the annual grime on my white coat.

But my foot slips and down I go. I look up to catch December’s wicked grin. A flash of white shoulders, a flick of platinum hair—she is gone.

There’s a silvery echo on the air that does not bode well.

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