Through the slushy snowy fog of the annual surprise vernal storm, we watch as the brick column orders itself against the everywhichway of snowdrops, square and solid crimson dimmed by nighttime. We stand with unfortunate holes in our shoes, leaning slowly from side to side to watch the light shine out from behind the pillar, cut clean in seven or so, lines drawn through the air. The light illuminates a painted sign on the corner for an old museum in an old house, accidentally shooting over and around the column, smoky in the fog, a prism of dark gray and scarlet. Just here, the light is a starburst. Just here the light is such geometry. Just here the column is heaven sent with its halo.
The road shines from the wet, water twisting and twining into fluid ropes and falling down the street. Our shoes make eddies. Ice crystals balance on our eyelashes. Lean this way and the light shines over the column and it is sunrise with linear rays. Lean this way and you are half lit, half in dusky nighttime. The fog is smoke. To move your hand is to make it billow.
The next morning I cross the rivulets and step over slushy ridges. At the same corner sparrows sit in the whiteness of the morning. They sing to each other, utterly bewildered by what should be spring. Where did the snow come from, they ask. What are we to do?