Watching from my tinted viewing pane, the metal plain warmed by the temporary summer of combustible fuel, I see winter's
soft, frozen emissaries land upon the heated plain.
Quickly they return to liquid form. Each having for a moment quaked and quivered as a frightened child that does not know what to do.
As the procession continues the quivering dance of each flake extends its duration. Each sacrifice removing more of the heated defense. Returning that metallic landscape to nature's balance (equilibrium).
The tide turns as fragile flakes remain. The once
unconquerable plain now covered in a blanket of chilly white. Winter has gained another convert.
Pondering the process it occurs that each flake has given
itself ("no greater love has anyone...") that the corporate may succeed. Their brethren spreading the gospel of white snow.
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