And I dunno what to do with it. Apparently it's pretty cool. So here it is, typos and all:
A boy walks into a clearing on a cold evening, but this boy doesnt mind, he wears only a hat and boots to keep warm , his scarf, always present at his neck, billows out behind him, as if wanting to leave. he simply moves to the middle of the clearing, his feet crunching in the snow, and only the barest of light from the moon for him to see his way. Reaching the center, he stops. No other creatures are around, its simply the boy adn the woods, the trees muffled by a layer or fresh snow, and the branches bare. The boy looks up to the sky, and waits, he has seen and done this before. He knows what to expect and how it will look. But he cannot ever quite get the feeling of it any other way. So he returns. Time after time after time. And he waits. He puts his hands into the warmth of his pockets and shifts his wait. It's soon. His hair jutting out for the fringe if his hat shields is eyes from what he knows will come. He waits. The Woods are still. They point in the sky he knows all to well suddenly explodes into a ribbon of light and glides across his entire vision, the boy feels his pupils dilate, his stomach unclench as, his shoulders relax. And he watches. He always stays until then end. He stands, middle of the snowbound clearing, undated by the cold of his homeland, watching as something he knows and cannot understand happens before him. The light, he imagines it's warmth more comforting than the sun, illuminates him in the clearing. Still staring up at it all, his mouth moves, a question is asked. It's the same one he always asks. Suddenly, this is no longer familiar for the boy. He knows this now, but he is as unfazed with this as he is the cold. He reaches out of his pocket, pulls his hat down a bit over his eyes as something falls to the ground and freezes. He looks down for the very first time, and his mouth moves again, the same question, no longer to a familiar audience. But this time, he already knows the Answer. The boy suddenly throws his arms to the side, and his face to the moon, with more of that certain something streaming away to freeze into the snow and yells with all his being, not a question, but an answer. The boy then ceases to be, his hat falls to the snow and his scarf free to go as it wished. The light is gone. And so is the boy.