Rain darkens the streets and dims the sun’s lamp. I take off my hat, feeling the rain’s speckle on my head.
Morning, milky-soft. A cardinal flits in the woodland strip behind the garage. Green nubs push up through the winter-pressed loam.
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.
On a train north, the landscape as bitter and biting as hops. Winter’s spice is in its edge, its intoxication in its long, dark ferment.
Snow falls, silent outside the window. It covers the ground like absence layering over memory, at once beautiful, and cold, and obscuring.