Riley Hemmings '16

         The cold winter wind howls against the walls of our cabin. Outside are a frenzy of tumultuous snowflakes, screaming and scraping against all of our windows. Icicles form quickly out here in the frozen forest and nights never fail to go below zero - the prefect conditions for hysterical snowstorms and piercing icicles. All afternoon and into the night we sit and watch from the protection of our cabin as the wind pulls the snow sideways across our windows. The sounds of the storm outside as as a starving animal would sounds, hunting for food and struggling to survive. It eats up our cabin and swallows us whole. We are in the stomach of the storm and it doesn't seem to want to spit us out.
        The next morning when we awaken, the storm has slithered onto the next cabin in the woods. All that was left of it were mountainous snow drifts and glittering icicles lining our windows. The icicles shimmered and sparkled in the early morning rays of sun and the tips were starting to melt away, drip after drip falling to the snow covered ground below. They almost seemed angry, the left behind icicles, not able to be carried away with the storm and now that is forever moving.