permafrost.

They rest on the snow in the clearing. The wall of spruce behind them appear black against the matt gray sky, and hide some light, rendering this open space a single, solid shade of gray. At a glance the heard of elk might be sleeping. Some are huddled up against one another for warmth. Others, isolated, ghost like, seem to shiver. It is only the wind. Ribs that bend downward, out from beneath the fabric of their skins are testament to their deaths. The herd has frozen solid to the ground.

It is a cold winter. So cold the snow is like chalk. At one time it covered the bodies, but blew away in the wind, exposing the herd like fossils. Their hoof prints too, uncovered by the shifting snow, surround them, the only proof of their living. The snow beneath them has turned orange with old blood from their cavities, opened by birds and other starving scavengers.

No birds fly here this day. Too cold for birds. No sounds, save the gusting winds through the spruce. And the loud passing of cars from the highway, barricaded from sight by the wall of black spruce trees.

The heat of the driver's cabs causes condensation to form on their windows. A driver rubs it away with a pair of gloves resting on his passenger seat. He keeps his speed at three to five miles under the posted speed limit, and follows a safe distance behind the vehicle before him. He is driving carefully. The roads are virtually dry, as it has been too cold for too long for ice, but it would be dreadful to blow a tire here, and be forced to step out into the cold to change the spare.

In spring, the bodies will begin to stink.