Walking on the sidewalk, the crunch of rocksalt and ice. The world eggshell white, crackling under my feet. Brittle patches of sunlight that I crush with every step and a thin trickle of melt snaking its way into the gutter.
On the other side of the street an old man in uniform is clearing the hotel driveway, scraping his shovel back and forth across the road as if trying to read a text newly unearthed. The snow mixed with mud now, blotted with footprints, streaked with wheel dirt. Like the soiled wing of a runover bird.
If there is an epiphany here, it is as thin as our breath misting the air, as secret as this common prayer that murmurs from every lip. This morning the earth looks as if it had been dusted for fingerprints and found clean. And the glass of this building, catching the sun's eye, winks back at it.