Flanked by four of its brazen brethren,
a trenchant, translucent stalactite of ice
derides the season’s holed-up
hostages who side-eye it through a smudged window
with reciprocal hostility.
The frigid digits of differing lengths
dangle off the awning,
all similarly slender, as if displaying
the dramatic success of their
slimming regimen since New Year’s.
The frozen fingers seem to
be scheming to slap the faces of
leaving for the Valley of the Sun,
but may decay in the drippy oblivion
of a midwinter thaw.
About the contributor: A fan of rain, jangly folk-rock music and bloodstones, Adrian Slonaker ziz-zags across the US/Canadian border and works as a copywriter and copy editor. Adrian’s work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has appeared in Pangolin Review, WINK: Writers in the Know, Aerodrome, and others.
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