Silver frost shines on the trees. Sylvia steps on her porch to observe the astounding beauty. Bites of bitter cold send Sylvia back inside her house for the heat of her fire. For days, Sylvia paints flowers, remembering the colors of warmth and the light Myra creates.
The gray fog blankets the valley and covers the garden and trees. Sylvia sees the damp curtain and shivers. "Myra, where are you?"
Curran begins his moan as he pushes the thick, sticking fog.
While Sylvia warms herself by the fire, the falling winter snow silences the warmth and colors from Myra. For one moment, Myra stretches through the thick fog towards Sylvia's window to peek inside. Myra loses her balance and falls into the woodpile. The cold freezes Myra. Sylvia looks from her window; she sees only the frozen earth.
For days, Curran's strains and wrestles the thick fog, which rushes back in thick whirling grays.
On these winter days, whites and grays and dark browns covered spring and summer. While Sylvia warmed herself by her fires, the rains cry from Myra. The tears freeze into snowflakes, which cover the ground, holding the world dormant.
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