We finished a series of ball and headed outside dripping.
The air was flat,
allowing the glow of the sun to fool us
with the warmth of our extinct summer days.
It was righteous in every direction,
glimmering off the trenches of snow.
The wind rose,
lightly at first,
like the elders leaving church with their tickets punched.
It wrestled sporadically with the air,
confused.
Soon it doubled its muscles
and whipped through us again and again.
Leaving no visual scars,
we attempted to dance with it,
but the heat was gone.
An exchange for compounding disorder.
Nostalgia is simplicity,
entropy is always increasing.