Fifty-Three

In a wintry forest, in the night, the trees were dancing. Their black bodies stirred in the wind, a frozen flow of shadows against the white. I looked up at the light above. Couldn’t tell whether it was the moon or a lamppost. My face was slowly covered with snowflakes ready to melt. I could feel the presence of my father, but could not spot him anywhere. My cap was getting soaked where it touched my face, the heavy fabric stuck to my skin and I started to itch. There was a smell of burning wood in the air. There must have been a house around, with a warm furnace.

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