Big black boots trample through a sea of snow
with the delicate gait of a zealous stalker.
Swiftly, they arrive: the little figures.
Slim and long, brisk and bounding.
One then two then three then four.
Their little fingers, very little,
latch themselves on.
The big black boots send them flying
like bright white bullets
and their gargled gasps erupt in the wintery air,
disguised as wisps of fog.
Little fingers litter the snow as a
stick grinds into the bloodied crevices of the boots,
violently discarding the leftovers.
Longingly,
the figures grasp at their congealed bretherein
as they splat! into the snow.
The figures turn back, their white faces gaunt and still.
In a swift movement,
the big black boots are severed;
and carried away into the blissful white
by thousands of little fingers.
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