It's hardened snow, a layer of crust tough enough to hold my weight. I edge my way to the tent pole. It's almost swallowed by the snow. A drift, dangerous, six feet if you go by the pole height. Deeper than I am tall. And the wind is so calm. Eery calm. I wonder if I'm already dead.
Ochre Idyls
Poems, Haiku/Tanka, Short Fictions