The ice has melted
and night falls blanketing the
wreckage of the storm.

The cracking bullets
of melting ice crashing down
seems more than water.

I write by candles
now power, trees crashing down
feels like World War II.

The vague blue-black light
illuminates the glossy
branches as they crash.

A wasteland of ice-
trees lay splinterd in the street;
shattered, gleaming bones.

A varnish of ice
bows brittle branches down in
silent submission.

A hard, blue-gray sky
waits with icy impatience
for something to fall.