Walk to Class

By Caroline Motler ‘24

The cold is biting.

Before long, I feel nothing in my fingertips, but my face continues to sting with every icy breeze

that dances through the street.

So elegant, yet so sharp.

Like the strokes of a fresh ink pen on a sheet of watercolor paper, crisp, clean, graceful.

Not a soul walks with me.

The click of my heels echoes dull and hollow, a throbbing pain of solitude.

My jacket swishes back and forth, scratching against my jeans in a most annoying manner

producing the only other sound, a shush magnified in the silence.

My steps are hurried, my mind clear and calm, as bleak as the fresh powder.

The trees are frail, skeletal creatures.

Then, it appears, I am not alone after all.

Everything struggles through the season.