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.