The Halt
Whack! Crack! comes the breaking of
frost bitten icicles cutting, slicing through the air to
wreak havoc on the shelter. Cots picked for
warmth, sat farthest from the wreaked glass.
Putting fear aside, the pickpocket scrabbles
in, ignores cutting stares, to crouch ill by
the stove, merrily crackling as twigs and kindling
are ate and drank by flickers and sparks.
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