Frigid Cold Art

My entire body is encased in ice. I can feel the cold, wet, densely packed white liquid-like substance absorbing into my clothing. I wiggle my limbs in an attempt to create a simple yet unique piece of art. Having no artistic ability, drawing inside the lines seems like a safe way to go. I push away with my arms and legs enough of this cold substance to consider my masterpiece finished. But the toughest part of my task is to peel myself away from my creation leaving just enough of myself behind, but not leaving a footprint that is too big. I finger-paint two little dots with a sly looking line beneath them at the top of my Sistine Chapel; as though it were the final cherry on top of a decadent sundae, or the laminate that is spread on top of the final coat of paint. My snow angel has a personality, and I watch her as she greets the cars that whip past her on the street.