January 10th, xxxy
HIS WORLD IS ON a standstill. In his grip the axe is held like a log of wood. Sweat drips down his face. He is mesmerized by the audacity of the Heavens.
His world is soundless. Just him and his gasping breath. His trouser stick to him like magnet. He heaves, catching his breath. He raise his head to the sky but blinded by its stark white, closes his eyes.
He darts out his tongue. It is cold. It tastes like tears. Cam is functional to realize that he isn't crying. His face is as dry as the air around him. Yet. The snow flakes tastes like tears.
The sun is a beacon of heat. Proud and loud, it shines unrelenting, unmoved by the snow falling. I was here first, the sun seemed to say. I will permit this, the sun grins.
First snow of the (last) year. It will be a short snow. Here late, gone in a snap. Cam wants to think the timing is a good thing. It will almost be as if there was never snow.
