image from Hope at pinterest.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The squirrel clung to icy bark, whiskey-eyed, tail stiff as chalk~ barked through his chattering teeth: Holy moly, I can’t feel my face degrees! His acorns? Forgotten. Priorities? Now strictly: Don’t become a popsicle. The wind hissed back—Too late, too late— while his whiskers crystallized at eight. By noon, he’d thawed, resumed his scheming, but still muttered, still unbelieving~ Weatherman LIED! Absolute disgrace. Next time, I’m moving to OUTERSPACE.<.em>
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