The air was cold,
The farmer breathed it in,
Only to cough it back out.
Blood splattered,
The farmer, saw cattle, sheep, and corn.
Corn sharper than steel,
Sheep more prickly than brambles,
Cattle as stationery as an anvil.
The air was a crisp,
Negative thirty six,
The farmers lungs started to freeze,
Motionless as the crisp,
Smooth glass crept up his leg.
Unable to move,
He could only think.
The world around him,
Cold, barren,
air crisp with the cold.
People, who they are,
Regardless or their dogma,
Their trade,
Will die.
For the crisp air,
Will kill them all.
As the farmer stood.
A statue, a blue statue of ice.
