there’s a quiet to snow
that has nothing to do
with physics and
soundwaves being eaten
by snowbanks.
after the excitement
of the first few flakes
making their way down
subsides into acceptance,
everything seems to slow.
even in the middle
of Manhattan.
streets empty, but it persists
even when cars crawl along
and other pilgrims pass,
even through children
shouting as they play
or people cursing
at the inconvenience.
there’s still wonder,
if you make room for it,
streets turned pastoral
and white glare sparkling,
even as some turns to slush
under boots and tires.
even then.
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