Hell frozen over

They blow like ghosts
silent
across the floor,
singularly focused upon
the wind’s bitterness.

The cold is no longer
merely a meteorological phenomenon
but the devil himself,
a million needle sharp teeth
tearing through exposed flesh.

Betrayed by Southern accents,
I think to myself,
“these men would find 40 degrees unpleasant”

This must be hell frozen over.

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