Standing behind glass

I heard the silence echo

against steel and stone.

Olive Street (view from my bedroom window)

This morning was different. There was a quiet snow falling slowly, steady, and with purpose.  It wasn’t messy or overpowering. Two inches on the ground made the world look shy and delicate. The city was a great sleeping creature with soft fur like that on the back of a cat. It seemed to me that if I reached out my hand the snow might raise up and stiffen under my touch. I enjoyed walking in it.  My feet squeaked rather than crunched.  My cheeks were filled with a rosy chill, but to my surprise I was perfectly warm.  I could stay out here for hours, I thought.

I reflected on the early January mornings in Germany when I would wake to fresh snow covering the surrounding fields like a blanket.  The sky would be bathed in white and only a small gray silhouette revealing the mountains in the distance.

It is no where near as quiet here.  But this morning was still a welcome pause from what feels like constant noise.  Life feels like constant noise in the city.  I suppose it is, to some degree.  I miss the quiet places.

cup of tea and apple muffin
walk six blocks south and two avenues
east

down the steps into
wind tunnel;
up again and the world is
changed

across the river
shiny steel towers
cast shadows on people
moving, moving

street lunch aromas
sights in shop windows
entice the senses
better to sit in the park
looking, looking

journey back where
red bricks and five stories
abound
familiar faces and voices
resound

The snowman smiled through the dark, bitter cold.  My feet were getting wet.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

I kept walking until I heard something unusual, so that I was compelled to stand still.  Complete silence. No car engines.  No voices.  No dogs barking. No wind chimes. Only quiet. Creepy.

I seemed to be frozen to the spot.  I wasn’t sure if the chill came from the snow or the absence of sound, so I turned quickly and ran until I reached the warm glow of our fire lit living room.

In the morning the sun was out and temperatures were rising.  A brisk wind rattled through the naked tree branches while sunny rays melted their icy fingers.  By the afternoon I had taken my sweater off.  I walked outside to the mailbox without my shoes on, and noticed the dirty white remains of the snowman standing alone in the brown grass.

His purple sunglasses and orange candle nose had fallen from his face.  His former smile of rocks was scattered on the drying ground below him.  The brightness of the sun made me squint my eyes.  I heard a far off siren and the low rumble of five o’clock traffic.

I’d been looking forward to Spring for months, but somehow the sight of the faceless snowman in the grass made me sad.