They say something happens the first storm of the season.

As November’s first snow approached, I stared bewildered.

For this time–it wasn’t just the snow I saw.

In the midst of a blizzard was a face.

One disturbing, twisted.

Not quite human, but not too far off.

A voice–subtle and pure, ghastly and eerie.

It was high as it was shrill, like wind travelling through a thousand trees.

I still hear that voice.

That howl, that cold and bitter scream.

And when I do, I lock all the doors. 

I turn on the fireplace, refusing hospitality to the cold.

I won’t let her take me.

For the storm’s song, graceful and weary, is deadly.

Leading the warm-blooded to their demise.

When you hear that shriek and your heart freezes over, the storm is here.

And she’s waiting.

Scratching against the doors, peering through the windows, 

Weary of the fire in which you plan to banish her.

I still hear her voice sometimes.

The storm’s bitter song, ringing through my memories, approaching my ears.

Haunting me until the next Spring begins.