She sat in the cold. The snow felt soft and clean. The raw arms of trees framed her in a wickerwork cage. She was oblivious. The cold had scoured her. Even the gooseflesh was gone. In its place was the smooth ice of marble flesh. The blue quiet she craved, when all the heat and fire and destruction was soothed by icy fingertips. Her legs were numb beneath her. She traced a vein on her arm, its pulse the only indication that she was still blood. Bone. Being. She heard the muted shush of wind in through the snow crystals. She watched a crow hop his black, shining self through the white. Head cocked to stare back, his obsidian eye a question in the bleak. She could taste her lover’s tongue. The shivering subsided. She watched the blood trickle from her thighs. Thickening in the cold. Rubies. She lay back. The falling snow in her eyelashes and hair. Pale grey eyes open to the pale grey sky. Her breath a pillow for the air. And her soul a companion for the crow.