The icy Penobscot wind cut through me like a blade as I stared at the crow, now just a crumpled shadow in the snow. My dad’s shot had silenced its call, and it lay there, broken and defeated, a symbol of my own helplessness. Tears, hot and stinging, were my only warmth in this cold, cruel world. The bitterness of the air mirrored the bitterness in my heart as the crow lay at my feet, a fallen soldier on a frozen grave.
Posted in response to the challenge Winter Tales.
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