Peeling back a corner of November's drear,
the ill-tempered sun
offers no warmth,
just harsh white light,
a fluorescent glare to light the way through the freezer-burned city.
The grimy dust of dust, ice, salt and sand,
of yesterday's snow,
litters alleys and gutters,
a vague reminder of delicate beauty.
The arid breeze blows stiffly through the valley,
rushing down from whitened hills and mountains
a few leaves along gray and gritty streets,
a few flakes coaxed from sullen clouds,
a few bundled strangers from here to there.