The Icicle

The icicle

The silence fills the crisp morning air
As the sun hits the forming icicles
A sweet baby calf, taking its first step
Walks towards her mother

Crunches of snow, being packed
Above the fresh hay, and off in the
Distance, soft meowing is heard

The clouds of pink surprise,
Mixed with the drip of melting ice
The barnyard awakes
To the crack of a gun

The silence fills the crisp morning air
blood covers the fresh snow, as the
forming icicle crashes to the ground