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?
 


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Allan DiBiase
03/07/2013 3:50pm

On a gray day, today, the camera registers black and white and shades of gray between. Your eye is eager for whatever color you come upon.

And then you will sink to your knees in the snow to get nearer. Olive green and maroon buds. Last years faded orange leaves. A single red berry on wintergreen.

The canvas of white waiting for the eye to write.

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