PAUL CHRISTENSEN

Winter didn't die easily here in Vermont. Its hand was still gripped around the doorknob, keeping us from leaving the house. We had to endure the ongoing death rattle in its throat, the slivers of ice that formed at the end of its breath. We were tired already, exhausted to the bone wearing our heavy coats to go to the store, to check the mail, to peek around the corners of the house at the scrubby little weeds shivering in the wind. I pitied the frail green things that wante