Watch your step.

In subzero temperature I can finally see things.
An exhalation illuminates the shapes of ghosts who would otherwise choose to conceal themselves in the thin air.

Beneath my feet, the ice, too, is thin.
Water moves below me as if it is alive, as if some goddess wishes to smile at me and draw me down, seal my breath with her pale hands, watch the sunrise with me from beneath an awesome prism of blue.
I must not misstep. If the ice cracks, this fragile lifeline that connects me to my imperfect human desires will surely not hold.
But if —
I will turn my eyes to the dawn.
If I cannot have it, at least I would like to know that.
At least I would like to know.

And still the clouds of mist reveal those spirits who shiver starkly in the air,
still the ghosts struggle to draw breath,
still they dream of better days,
they dream of their silent graves.

There are dead men in the sky.