I wish I was a crow, so I could see the the sky disappear onto rooftops, where I’d alight, not knowing whether I perched upon a weather mane or a stove pipe.
It’s the kind of day where, walking, you suddenly find your feet straddling the curb of a street where the sidewalk once was. Everything buried in a 12-inch quilt of white.
Looking down, eyes sparkle with rainbow-strewn dots flitting in and out of comprehension’s way. What is color?
The few people out and about are sweating in their winter fluff, rediscovering the true shape of their girlfriends’ cars while the women stand there, dutifully watching.
It’s hard to breathe. The air 50/50 mixed with engines giggling methane, left idling by whilst masters keep toasty inside. The biting cold freezing dripping snot runs that you can’t feel until lungs feel fit to combust.
No one should be working today. Why try and drive someplace? This winter Sunday is best enjoyed with screwdriver in hand, staring out the window at the splendor of nature’s destruction.
It knows not what it does. It just is.