Pure Frost

The celestial fly, curbs
ice-rimmed branches;
A stark contrast between,
the palor silver frost.
The stiff grass
gently crumples,
leaving imprints
from heavily-laid feet.
It is silent.
Until a soft hum
Increases to a blaring whir.
Something black, in stark contrast,
Hisses through the air. Cooly,
sweet, soft, small celestial fly...
dropping through the fog-hung sky,
No wind to guide it either way.
From a window, a bright-eyed boy
Places a sweating hand onto the glass.
Warm, rose-colored, his fingers meld
with the surface. He watches the opaque
object. Cooly, swiftly falling. No one else
looks. They know. But they are silently
turned aside. Falling, falling, falling...
silence, silent, quiet.
Explosion.
Black frost,
Howling.