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Appearing from nowhere, a red stain in my colourless vision, I found them cold in the whiteness of the first snowfall. They lay there in the misty haze, stunned to silence, smothered in their white blanket; that splendid state beyond shivering. All the swans are dead, their bodies melt, reclaimed by the snow. I watch myself in their vacant eyes, staring out at me, as if I’m some kind of god- the sun’s sparkle has faded; black mirrors, an onyx iris. With wings contorted, they lay limp, their broken necks hanging like empty white bags, their once-upon-a-time white feathers twitching in the wind, the veins on their sagging skins unwrapped, all speckled with flashes of ruby, brighter than fire, and just as untameable. This scalded mess looks at me; the ends molt through, peeping like scared children, and crawl along my frozen skin; it’s almost pleading, the red ocean growing and overflowing, staining the pinking dirt. They are all equal here, entwined in strands that slither like embracing fingers, numb to the bone from the biting frost; iced to perfection, inseparable chunks. From high above in the black sky, he saw it all, creaming with knowledge- watching through his terrible spyhole, that ghostly hue that bones this new aurora’s gleam with sallow blemishes. This scene infects me; I circle the remains in awe and continue; this sight’s colouring me green: it is over; they are finished, laying in the soiled snow.