Snow seals the ground like a quiet sheet. Tracks split and vanish where the cold repeats. A porch light flickers through the trees, far off— warmth on the glass, nothing on the loss. No headline here. No name to keep. BONES IN THE SNOW — THE WORLD MOVES ON. BONES IN THE SNOW — BEFORE DAWN, THEY’RE GONE. BONES IN THE SNOW — NO WITNESS, NO FEEL. BONES IN THE SNOW — FORGOTTEN IN STYLE. A story happened. It doesn’t matter how. The forest doesn’t speak and neither do we now. We step around it. We keep our pace. We call it “nature.” We erase the trace. No justice here. Just weather and time. If the snow is mercy, it’s a clean white lie. It covers what we won’t carry, then lets it die. BONES IN THE SNOW — THE WORLD MOVES ON. BONES IN THE SNOW — BEFORE DAWN, THEY’RE GONE. BONES IN THE SNOW — NO WITNESS, NO FEEL. BONES IN THE SNOW — FORGOTTEN IN STYLE.
