This was written during the last snow storm. Just before I went to bed, I looked outside, felt the snow falling, wanted to describe the serene peace, and scribbled these few ideas. Unfortunately, the original was mangled with run-ons and repeated words. So I feebly tried to fix it in time for the latest fall.
When it snows it is perfectly silent because the storm blankets the sounds of planes, cars, and even the wind. The high orange glow of lamp posts illumines speckled sheets of bright lavender-white sky.
Bushwick looks older now; scalloped roof eaves are limned in white. Brick chimneys remember the nineteenth century, before snow plows, when a snow day meant staying at home and tending to the wife and child, building the fire. You go to the pen and slice open a hog's belly, feel the rich warm blood spill over your hands, and know the family will be well fed during the impasse.
Dead leaves hang limply from still branches. Steel mesh fences with the twisted pointed tips look soft and still-lived. The dead remember the snow, how it falls and buries their silent tombstones, drowning their names and quiet calls. We'll all go their way.
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