The air becomes thicker each mile I go

and my feet trudge through the Winter’s snow.

Trees hold onto sap mid-drip,

holding on tight, resisting the drift.

Ice covers the ground but remains see-through

and shows the struggles others have been through.

Cold and afraid, I set up for the night

and I take myself out of sight.

Morning comes and so does the worry

that I wont make it without a hurry.

Caught in the middle of life and death:

I ride the line till’ there’s nothing left.

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