I'm watching wee snow flakes flutter through light to join their kin as white ground cover. It's like an explosion of glitter, around each light source. Strange to seem so separate, when surrounded by light, and wind. Then to be absorbed into a mass instantly, completely.
There is a line or two of poetry tumbling through my head. I think it was Joel Lewis who said it, or wrote it, or murmmered it to some street light in Hoboken….
that exile’s sense of recreation
& believe rebirth is possible
from the wreck of our common misery
& that songs are clear when sung
by heroes, but not in this epoch. Niggling
winter dreams fueled by the rhythms
of the world’s desire."
It's quiet. That's what happens in a city that doesn't quite believe in snow, at least not in snow coming here. This time of year is almost always bustling with desire. It's nice to hear the quiet.