The screams at the end are my favorite part,

A park bench in the wintertime,

Complete with the appropriate music and jingling bells,

A flock of pigeons

waiting to become                                                    friendly,

waiting to become                                                           fed,

welcome to the fold.

The branches of a nearby tree slowly bending to the weight of the snow,

not under the weight of birds,

reaching towards the ground,

instead of towards the  sun,

desperately trying to pick up scraps leftover from thanksgiving,

or fallen apples or baseballs or whatever is within striking distance,

Trying to make a Christmas dinner out of nothing but

sleeping vampires and silver bullets,

with no cider to keep us warm.

with no chairs to keep us upright.

                         with no place for our swinging hands.

Our ghostly hands.

Our heavenly hands.

Eventually all the snow will  fall, on top of more snow,

and that snow will be

colder now that it is further from the hot air from above,

Further from all  the weather balloons

and the exploding artillery shells,

and the  stranded astronauts beyond even them

and everything else beyond that.

Beyond them.

colder now that it is further from the truth,

better now that is with more snow,

snow more like itself.

                                                              smoke in another life.

In a wisp, it is gone.

Passing through cracks in a window,

                                                             and passing through already vacant towns,

Kicking in the doors to saloons where

No pianos are playing.

No pianos are playing.

There is no one dancing.

This can all be seen from the balcony.

                                      Arms crossed, and barely breathing,

but man,

what a smile.

And those screams,  at the end,

Those screams, too.