...wander around a corner
from nowhere then
suddenly stop.
A bird landed lightly on clean fallen snow,
curious icy hop, hop before taking flight.
Cold rain pelted down,
forcing tracks and snow into
frigid liquid spills on pebbled asphalt.
Tonight, icy streets shine black
edged in grey slush
yet to melt away.
Watery tracks dribble noisily into sewer drains.
Birds snuggle into protective evergreen trees.
A Victorian winter day.
“True solitude is a din of birdsong,
seething leaves, whirling colors,
or a clamour of tracks in the snow.”
~ Edward Hoagland
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