I finally have my snow tonight, rolling down the avenues and blanketing all sound.
Can hear laughter below my living room window, the slush of cars like waves pushing against rocks. Whalesong of carhorns far off, suddenly close, distorted over distances. One lone cyclist threading his way through the fat whiteness of the street.
And as for my need to romanticize icy flakes of water, what do I do with that? It’s as if I grew up in a warm climate and never had to shovel snow. The wind picks up, the sky’s a low violet, the streetlamps buzz with a thousand furious bees. Footprints cut diagonally across intersections, thick parked cars disappear, half a block away the world becomes opaque, lost.
In the early nineteenth century sense of the word, in the darker edge of a storm, what isn’t Romantic about the raw, wet world outside tonight?
Ryan Sloan 