A weak snow fall has stopped--and I don't miss the trouble it could cause had it continued. But I miss the swirling fall from a broken sky, its staccato rhythms, the way it's like a flight of birds sucked up, blown sideways, upside down, inside out into a convoluting hallucination, a rorschack, in the air.
Now, a disappointing aftermath--all the drama gone, a balloon gone flat, the streets merely wet, the grass still winter-beaten, a room empty of echoes...though here...there, as I peer more closely, some fugitive white dots, lost in the windy gray: mere after thoughts? More on the way?
Now, a disappointing aftermath--all the drama gone, a balloon gone flat, the streets merely wet, the grass still winter-beaten, a room empty of echoes...though here...there, as I peer more closely, some fugitive white dots, lost in the windy gray: mere after thoughts? More on the way?
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