This passage is an answer to a text message from a friend who was out of town, asking what it looked like outside.
Ice fell from the sky, assaulting whatever and whoever lay below. The petals of spring that brought beauty in the sun of summer were torn from their stems. Yellow, green, white, and the blue of violets surrendered before the storm. No longer did they stand proud, but they slouched in defeat, naked since their clothes were shredded to the ground. As usual, Fall had been skipped in the wonderful city of cows, and winter had already begun to bite. After-all it had to make up for lost time and redeem it’s self from the year before where it had decided to wake up late—and got beat out by the sun that decided summer would wake up early. This year, winter proclaimed . . . this year that town of cows will pay.