Bright morning. The snow-crust breaks under my feet to the powder below. Someone else’s bootprints lead out to the garden, but don’t return.
The hoarse cough of someone scraping ice off of concrete and a slow, melting drip from the eaves. 30°, dark and full of muffled echoes.
Afternoon fog, disorientingly warm. Sidewalks reappear like arms from under dirty lace and the air cloys, smelling of dirt and water.