Whiskey Over Ice.

Green and shaking.
Trees in summer.
A bottle of whiskey.

Drinks in the afternoon.
Fingers curl around the warming glass.
Melting ice cools warm hands.

Crevasse.

"Everyone could be a poet," he declares casually.
"If they just paid attention."

I look out of the window at the trees pushing against the sky.
The sun bleaches everything it touches.
I sip at the whiskey, warm and cool.

I think of glaciers and the touch of snow...

"But who pays attention, any more?" the bottle clinks.
Droplets slide down the glass, unheeded.

Rivulets and rings on a polished wooden table.
The reflections gleam and distort.

"Of course, we're not really friends." He shrugs, refreshing my empty glass.

The trees are still there.
White, green, gold.

How do they keep growing?

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