The snow is falling to the ground. No one else is around, only me. (The truth is hiding in the falling snow.) The trees are tired and I hear them groan, Crying out for relief. No help comes and still they groan. Then a snap—a crack— A branch falls to the ground, Taken under by the weight and pressure. But on and on the snow still pounds, And pounds, and pounds, Until the branch is covered. A white carpet consumes the ground. I step out and discover that the snow Is crushed under my weight. Then I ask myself and wonder: What will it be that crushes me?